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Copyright 

By Richard Forster 
1923 




Musings of a Sheepherder 


By RICHARD FORSTER 




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1923 

PRESS OF THE COMMERCIAL PRINTING COMPANY 
CASPER, WYOMING 





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RICHARD FORSTER 




































































Musings of a Sheepherder 


NATURE 

Let some delight in fields of corn 
And some in flocks and herds, 

But joy, for me is the dewy mom 
And warbling of birds- 

’Tis well to see the art of man 
Flourishing in high degree, 

But the beautiful works of Nature’s plan 
I love to see. 

’Tis well to see pastures green 
And cultivated land, 

But I love the unfrequented scene 

Where all is the work of Nature’s hand. 

Where art has not found a dwelling place 
And all is pure and free; 

Where of man’s handiwork there is no trace 
Beneath the forest tree. 

I love the deep ravine and dark recess 
In the rugged Mountain land, 

Oh, dear to me the tangled wilderness. 

The magic of Nature’s wand. 


MY ROSEBUD 

As the summer sunshine’s golden flood 
Was growing soft at the evening hour, 

I left my heart with a rosebud— 

A sweet, unfolding flower. 

My beautiful, beautiful rosebud, 
Unmatched on bank or bower; 

My fair, unfolding rosebud— 

She is my own sweet flower. 

And well I love my rosebud, 

Every hour my love it grows, 

Last eve she promised that she would 
Sometime be my Rose. 

The warm sunshine is on the land 
And soft the zephyr blows; 

Though beauty is on, every hand 
I am waiting for my Rose. 


MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE BLACKBIRD AND THE THROSTLE 

Nellie: “Of all tlie birds I ever heard or that I ever saw 

My boimie, bonnie blackbird is the sweetest bird I 
know, 

My bonny, bonny blackbird with his glossy breast, 

My bonny blackbird is the one that sings the best.” 

Maggie: “Of all the birds I every heard or birds that ever sung 
The sweetest song is from my throstle’s tongue, 

My bonny, bonny throstle, he sings with such zest, 
My bonny, bonny throstle, ’tis he that sings the best.” 

Nellie: “Of all the birds that sing in field or wood 

There is no other bird that is half so good, 

My bonny, bonny blackbird, I know he’ll bear the test, 
My bonny, bonny blackbird, I know he sings the best.” 

Maggie: “Of all the birds that ever in sweetness of voice was 
blest, 

Of all the birds that ever the gift of song possest, 

Of all birds that ever sung, ’twill surely be contest, 
My bonny, bonny throstle, he really sings the best.” 

Nellie: “Oh, Charlie, Charlie, do come this way 
And a word in favor say 
Of the sweetest bird you ever heard 
Is it not my bonny, bonny blackbird?” 

Charlie: “Of all birds that I have known and I know of many, 
I think Nellie’s blackbird sings the sweetest song of 
any, 

Whether he be sitting in the bush or on my lady’s hand 
His song is the sweetest in the land.” 

Maggie: “Oh, Harry, come here and listen, then let us hear 
you say, 

For you have known many birds, and you’ve been far 
away, 

And for your impartial judgment now I pray, 

Is not the sweetest song that of my throstle grey? 

Harry: “Oh, yes, I’ve known many birds and I’ve been far away, 
And of all birds I have heard I positively say 
That of the sweetest voices the feathered tribes among, 
Of all the sweetest voices ever heard in song. 
Whether in Northlands or Southlands, or lands of 
East or West, 

I know that Maggie’s throstle really sings the best. 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


THE HOME OF KHUKI KHAN 

Not by tbe smiling slopes 
Of the sunny hills of Van, 

Not here shall dwell my hopes, 

The hopes of Khuri Khan. 

I seek not golden gain 
Of fertile fields of Van, 

My heart is on the windy plain— 

The plain of Neppurhan- 

Not for me the gardens that yield perfume 
Where loves of Omar lie, 

And Iran’s ancient towers loom 
Against the amyut sky. 

Not all the wealth that India boasts; 

Not all the wealth of Man, 

Won along the trading coasts 

Will lure me from wild Kafiristan. 

For power and wealth let others plan, 

Though I be e’er so poor, 

I’ll stay with my herdsmen clan— 

The shaggy Shar-ul-Gur. 


THE KIN FOLK 

Oh, where are all our kin folk, 

Our kin, our kin, our kin? 

On every side we are beset, 

Our foes foes keep pouring in, 

Oh, where are all our kin folk, 

The kin, the kin, the kin. 

Ho! We are of the kin folk, 

The kin, the kin, the kin. 

To north and south 
The iron mouth 
Will speak in battle’s din, 

To east and west will face our best, 
We’ll win, we’ll win, we’ll win, 

For we are of the kin folk, 

The kin, the kin, the kin. 

3 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE GOOD LITTLE GIRL TELLS THE NAUGHTY BOY 
SOMETHING ABOUT BIRDS 

One summer day as I, unseen, 

Was sitting by a fence 
I heard a little girl say, “Johnny Dean, 

I wish you’d go and get some sense. 

I hear you saying naughty words 
You broke a window, too, 

You were throwing stones at birds 
What a naughty boy are you.” 

I love the sweet birds so, 

They are such pretty things 
And when they are flying to and fro 
The sunbeams flash on their wings. 

The birds tell me many things 
They would never tell to you 
About what they sing and why they sing 
And what their little chickies do. 

A little bird showed me her nest, 

She is such a pretty bird 
And she sings the sweetest and the best 
Of all sweet songs I’ve heard. 

And within her nest there lay 

Such eggs as were never seen by you, 

Never were skies of May 
Ever half so blue. 

Every day I went to watch 
The nest down by the willows 
Till chickies begun to hatch, 

They are such funny little fellows. 

The little ones have no feathers on them 
At the time when first they are bomed, 

Not till the sun shines on them 

Are they with pretty feathers adorned. 

But little teeny patches of fluffy down 
Is stuck on them here and there, 

Mostly their skins are brown 
And mostly they are bare. 

4 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


And their little eyes are shut, 

And their bills are open wide 

Into which worms and things are put 
To fill the great big hole inside- 

One time I put my finger in a teeny bit, 

Then I couldn’t help but squirm 

For it closed its bill on it, 

Thinking it was a worm. 

To each darling little chick 
I have given a name, 

There’s Jenny and May and Bobbie and Dick 
And they are so very tame. 

Of course the birds would never tell 
Any such things to you, 

’Cause they do not like you well 
For the wicked things you do. 

But I think they like me the very best 
Of all the people here around, 

For I can go and watch the nest, 

And never make a sound. 

I never throw stones at birds, 

But talk to them real nice, 

But you throw stones and use bad words, 

I’ve seen you do it twice. 


A FACE YOU WILL NEVER SEE AGAIN 

Is there somewhere a place 
Where memories obtain, 

And holds a well-beloved face 
You will never see again? 

In the silence of the night 
Has your heart felt lone, 

Have you wakened to the morning light 
And absence of some beloved one? 

Among the sorrows that fill this earthly space, 
Ah! do you know the pain 
To think and dream of a face 
You will never see again? 

5 



MUSINOS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


A DREAM 

I dreamt I lay by a crystal stream 
Wihere flowers grew fresh and fair, 

And I was sheltered from the scorching sunbeam 
By a pleasant shadow there. 

I dreamt I stooped and drank of water sweet 
That flowed so cool and clear, 

Soft green moss was amongst my feet, 

And many a flower grew there. 

In the breeze that stirred the balmy air 
I felt the fragrance of flowers commingle 

And oh! What gems of beauty rare, 

Splashed upon the shingle. 

And melody was welling sweet 
From every leafy copse, 

The breeze rustled a field of ripening wheat 

And fleecy clouds sailed over the mountain tops. 

Alas! I awoke—It was but a dream. 

But to dream it again I would fain; 

I wish I could lie by that clear crystal stream 
And drink of the water again. 


A NOVEMBER DAY LIKE A MARCH DAY 

The dead leaves dance a merry merry dance, 
The dead leaves whirling fly, 

The waters of the lake flash and glance 
As the waves go rippling by. 

It is a November day like a March day 
And never was sky more blue, 

The wind came out to play 

And over the hills he flew. 

He made the water leap and bubble 
Then with a froo-froo-froo, 

He rushed away over a field of stubble— 

As shadows went galloping through. 

Swift over the sky white clouds flew, 

Over the hills the shadows hastened away, 
And the sky was intensely blue 
On that November day. 

6 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


MARY 

When your mind to knowledge wakes 
And Time some truths unfold, 

You’ll find though Mary has made mistakes 
She has a heart of gold. 

Of evil a small, small part, 

There is so much good within, 

She has enough kindness in her heart 
To cover all her sin. 

Her failings, we’ll let them pass, 

Erring still human kind have been, 

And even though a factory lass, 

She ranks with a royal queen. 

I regard as sisters all 

The daughters of Royal Eve, 

Privileged to have a fall 
And pardon to receive. 

And surely I’ll take Mary’s part 
When gossip the worst has told, 

Mary has a woman’s heart 
A heart of purest gold. 


TO A PICTURE 

If those lips had the power of language 
And those eyes the light; of life, 

Then my heart would languish 
To call thee wife. 

If those pensive eyes would soften 
And with the light of love would shine, 

Then would I kiss full often 
Those coral lips of thine. 

If those ruddy locks about thy brows 
With living luster shone, 

Then would I pour my fondest vows 
To thee, adored one. 

If that still bosom would but heave 
And with warm heart throbs beat, 

If Cupid his spell around our hearts would weave 
Then would life be sweet. 

7 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THERE IS ONE I LOVE THE BEST OF ALL 

There’s one I love the best of all, 

She has such kindly ways, 

On the muses I would call 
To help me sing her praise. 

Like that of the angels holy 
Her virtue transcends 
From a heart pure and lowly, 

Her prayer to heaven ascends. 

Sweet, as the sweetest flower that blows 
In the pride of summer days. 

Her cheek with health and beauty glows 
As I enraptured gaze. 

The words that fall from her tongue 
Are clear as tones of a silver bell, 

And sweet as an angel’s song 

Where heavenly harmonies swell. 

She is graceful as the agile doe 
That bounds across the plain, 

And nimble as the mountain roe 
That hunters chase in vain. 

She is like the radiant sunbeams 
So gladsome and so sweet, 

The ideal of a poet’s dreams, 

Her beauty is complete. 


THE LAND OF LTJLID KHAN 

On, on, and away, way on, 

Through hills of drifted sand, 

Past the walls of Babylon 

To look for the Lulid land- 

IJp, up and away, way up, 

The heights of Rhumbly Brhin, 

Up, up over the mountain top 

And down through the Drhubly Drhin. 


8 



BY' RICHARD FORSTER 


Then down, down and away, way down 
To the rocks of the Ghar el Glin, 

And on, on and away, way on 

To the waters of the Bhahr el Blin. 

Then out, out and away, way out, 

Over the windy plain, 

Beyond the walls of Karakout 
And lakes of Ilderlain. 

Then on, on and away, way on 
To the gleaming Shur-i-Shan, 

This is the way I have, gone 
To the land of Lulid Khan. 

You can see all things that ever were seen 
By the eyes of child or man, 

You can find all things that ever have been 
In the land of Lulid Khan. 

By green and sunny slopes 
That are fair to scan, 

Live our long dead hopes 

In the land of Lulid Khan. 

Where breezes sing through lofty groves 
Cooling shades of Lulidstan, 

There live our long dead loves, 

In the land of Lulid Khan- 

By green and flowery meads 

By the banks of the Shur-i-Shan, 

There live our kindly deeds 
In the land of Lulid Khan. 

Where a pleasant pathway wends 
By the Bahar-el-Shur-i-Shan 
We meet our long lost friends, 

In the land of Lulid Khan. 

Cool and clear are the streams 
Plowing through Lulidstan, 

But it is only by the Boad of Dreams 
We reach the land of Lulid Khan. 


9 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


MARCHING- OF THE DAR 

Hark! ’Tis the trumpet call 

Sounding over the plains afar, 

'Tis morn and awaking all 
The warlike tribe of Dar. 

Again, again the wild note swells 
Echoing from the hills afar, 

And the jingling of the camel bells 
At the marching of the Dar. 

The trampling of ten thousand steeds 
As of warriors going to war, 

With ten thousand men of valiant deeds, 

The spearmen of the Dar. 

They sing, “No castle walls, no towers we rear, 
We use not bolt or bar, 

’Tis the Daric sword and spear 
That keep the tents of Dar.” 

Again, again the trumpet blast 

And the echoes of hill and scaur, 

Ten thousand are hurrying past, 

Wild horsemen of the Dar. 

They ride amid the battle’s rout 
Chasing foes afar, afar, 

Is heard the wild cheer and battle shout 
Of warriors of the Dar. 

A hundred thousand foes are coming on— 

The soldiers of the Czar, 

They are not cossacks of the Don— 

Beware, Oh, warriors of the Dar. 

And fifty guns are belching forth 
The iron blasts of war, 

The mighty glacier of the north 
Will crush the flowers of Dar. 

The guns from hill and rock 
Roar in the voice of war, 

Again they rush to the battle shock— 

The spearmen of the Dar. 


10 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Lance and sword and bayonet gleamed 
In fitful flash of war, 

While shot and shell and shrapnel screamed 
Through the ranks of Dar. 

They cannot conquer, they will not yield, 

They end like the setting of a glorious star; 
They fell on the blood-stained field 
Among the broken spears of Dar. 


VALLEY OF THE DOON 

Have you seen the hills a sleeping 
In the drowsy heat of noon, 

Or felt the winds a sweeping 
Over the valley o’ the Doon? 

Have you seen the heather on the mountain 
And the bluebell on the fell? 

Have you heard the music of the fountain 
That is leaping down the dell? 

Have you seen the buttercup and gowan? 
Have you wandered where the river flows? 

Have you seen the splendor of the rowan 
When the glory of Autumn glows? 

Have you heard the voice of Nature talking 
Or heard her softly croon? 

Have you seen the lover and maiden walking 
By the side o' dimpling Doon? 

Have you seen the beauty of fields and meadows 
By the light of sun and moon, 

And the changing lights and shadows 
In the valley o’ the Doon? 

Have you remembered love and duty 

And given thanks for the priceless boon, 

Of seeing the works of God in beauty 
In the A r alley o’ the Doon? 


11 




MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


BY THE OLD GRAY STONE 

Young Grade Landen was as pretty a maiden 
As ever a maid might be, 

As handsome a sailor was Jacky Blaydon 
As ever sailed on sea. 

When the sun was sinking down apace 
And the twilight coming on, 

Their favorite trysting place 
Was beside an old gray stone- 

Fair went their sweethearting 

As they wandered by lane and lea. 

Until there came the parting 
When Jacky went to sea. 

And years have come and years have gone 
Full twenty years and more, 

No tidings heard, his fate unknown, 

Since Jacky left the shore. 

And so faithfully waited she 
As time went on and on, 

Oft wandered she by lane and lea 
Unto that old gray stone. 

There came many a sunset golden 
And many a rosy dawn 
But she has nevermore beholden 

Her lover by that old gray stone. 

Oh, maiden, what can be keeping 
Thy lover away from thee? 

Perhaps he lies sleeping 

Deep, deep down ’neath the waves of the sea. 

Hearts that so true and constant prove 
And love with a love like thine, 

Thy true heart loves with a pure and holy love; 
A love that is divine. 

And surely the heart of God will feel 
For one so true as thee, 

And for such love will He not reveal 
Even the secrets of the sea? 

12 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


She has gone to wait for her lover 

Where she has waited so oft alone, 

Oh, does not his spirit hover 
By that old gray stone? 

When the night begins to darken 
And the wind sweeps over the lea, 

Maiden, if thou will but hearken 
His soul will sing to thee. 

And the song shall come from the brine 
Borne in the wind from the sea, 

His soul shall speak to thine 

A meeting of soul and soul shall be. 

What is the sound that is blending 
As the wind’s wild notes sweep by? 

The long, long wait is ending, 

The footstep of Death is nigh. 

With anxious heart no more she sighs, 

His fate to her is known, 

The mystery is solved in Paradise; 

She waits no more by that old gray stone. 


THE BOOK OF NATURE 

There is a thought of God in everything 
In every wind that blows 
In notes of the birds that sing 
And every stream that flows. 

There is a thought in every tree 
With its boughs a-swing, 

Wafting the message free 

Of Him who is Nature’s king. 

There is in every common weed 
That by the Wayside grows 
A lesson if we but heed 
As in the blooming rose. 

Even the dumb and silent stone 
A message may bespeak, 

There is the will to make it known 
To those who knock and seek 

13 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


IT IS NOT ME 

Toiling, toiling over the lumpy clods 
But ah! it is not me, 

I am where the bluebell nods 
Out on the breezy lea 

Toiling, toiling behind the sweating team 
But ah! it is not me, 

For I am where white sails gleam 
Far out on a sunlit sea 

Toiling, toiling in the bare brown field 
But ah! it is not me, 

I am where green palms yield 
Their fruit by a sapphire sea 

Toiling, toiling where sowers sow 
But ah! it is not me, 

I am where wild woods grow 

And Nature songs swell in tumultuous glee. 

Toiling, sweating amongst the hay 
But ah! it is not me, 

I am where cool winds sway 
The boughs of the forest tree. 

Toiling, toiling beneath the glowing sky 
But ah! it is not me, 

I am where ivild deer lie 

In the shade of the forest tree. 

You think you see me toiling on farm land 
But ah! it is not me, 

My soul is flying where mountains stand 
To sentinel the sea. 

You think you see me toil where reapers toil 
Biit ah! it is not me, 

Somewhere is the rover roil 
That lures my soul from me. 


14 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


COMMON PEOPLE 

Humble may be our lot, 

Unknown to fame or fortune we, 

Yet somewhere is one little spot 
Where useful we may be. 

Our triumphs small and meager 
Are little cause for pride, 

Yet for them strong and eager 
And purposeful we tried. 

History may know us not, 

Nor our little worth be descried, 

We and our humble labor soon forgot 
Beneath oblivion’s tide. 

Each in their little sphere 

May have done their duty there, 
Working to bring the time more near 
When heaven is everywhere- 

Thus fulfilling the Creator’s plan 
And how can Cod or angels chide 
Tiiose who fulfilled the lot of mortal man 
And lived and loved and died. 


MOUNTAINS OF MISTY BLUE 

As I ramble day by day 

Fresh beauties come in view, 

But oft my glance will wander far away 
To those mounts of misty blue. 

Though woods are held in Autumn’s sway 
In robes of brilliant hue. 

Yet mj" gaze will often go astray 
To those hills of misty blue. 

All the landscape in beauty lies 
And meadows gemmed with dew. 

Yet still they draw my wandering eyes— 
Those mounts of misty blue. 

As to things almost beyond our ken, 

Our childhoods fancies flew, 

So they lure the wandering gaze of men— 
Those mountains of misty blue. 

15 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE WIND 


I’ve crossed Alaska’s snowy heights and bleak shores of Hudson 
Bay, 

Over British Columbia’s rugged hills I’ve often made my 


way, 

Of all the moimtain ranges, I know every valley and peak, 
You’ll find none where I’ve not been, no matter where you 
seek. 

From Pacific to Atlantic, I know every stream and lake, 

I’ve visited them so often there can be no mistake; 

Of mountain, valley, prairie or pampa I know every inch, 

Be they where tropic suns may scorch or boreal storms may 
pinch. 


Of the Atlantic ocean I know every dip and swell, 

Of the broad Pacific I know every bay and islet well. 

Australia and Tasmania I know them through and through; 
I’ve chased the wombat and wallaby and the jumping kangaroo- 

By waters yet unknown to man oft my thirst I quench 

And I have played ’neath Afric’s palms with many a negro 
wench. 

Over Sahara’s arid wastes I’ve rambled many a time, 

Alike to me is time or place, alike to me is clime. 

I’ve been by Egypt’s famous river and on Syria’s ancient plains, 
And away far in the frozen North where mystery remains. 

I revel among Himalayan snows or flowers of fair Japan 

And rustle leaves of Celestial bowers at home with the 
Chineeman. 

In face of Afghan tribes I have fluttered England’s flag un¬ 
furled, 

And I have climbed Pamir’s height and swept the roof of 
the world. 

Listen to me, I boast not, nor exaggerate, all is true I tell to you, 
I’ve traveled many a dusty road along with the wandering 
Jew. 

I’ve been in many a toilsome march and in many a furious fight, 
Sometimes I am mild of mood, sometimes terrible in my 
might. 


On all the wide earth there is no place to which I did not go, 
Be it land of everlasting summer or region of eternal snow. 
In all terrestial zones is no place to which I have not been, 

I’ve shook the hand of many a king and kissed many a queen. 
I loiter by Switzer mounts, Italian founts, by cot or palace or 
mill. 

In lands of Sultan or of Czar I follow my own sweet will. 

16 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


With Goth or Frank I’ll play a prank and laughing in my glee, 
I’ll up and go where they do not know and I’ll be over the sea. 

Sometimes men will curse me and sometimes they will bless; 
Sometimes I bring them pleasure and sometimes I bring 
distress; 

I do not care for high or low, I play with all I chance to pass, 
I’ll even knock off a king’s hat and roll it on the grass. 

I catch alike wife or maid whether they go fast or slow, 

I hustle them along with a lilt and song and jolly them as 
I go. 

I travel oft, I’ve traveled long, I’ve traveled since the world 
first began, 

I was ere Adam was, I am older far than man. 

Sometimes I am with Johnny Bull, sometimes with Uncle Sam. 
Now guess if guess you can, and tell me what I am. 


SING IF YOU WANT TO 

Sing if you want to, 

Though your song unrhymed may be, 
Let no thought ever daunt you 
But pour it full and free. 

The spirit of the song 

Is more important than the meter, 

And trials endured long 

Will make it all the sweeter. 

Surely never poet sang 

But had some pain endured, 

Those who burst forth in clarion clang 
Are oft to woes inured. 

If you have work to do, do it well, 

In spirit and in letter, 

Then let your notes in triumph swell, 

And your song will be the better. 


17 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE THIRST FIEND 

A demon has me by the throat, 

The demon of strong desire, 

And diligently he has wrought 
To drag me in the mire. 

I’ve striven with him throughout the years, 
I’ve striven with all my wall; 

He mocks at me, he laughs and leers 
And he holds me still 

Against him what shall be my shield? 
Against him what shall my weapon be? 

Sometimes I think that I must yield 
When he is torturing me. 

If I should yield unto his sway 

While I feel the maddening fever bum, 

I would be on the downward way 
From which I could not turn. 

And what would be my lot 
If victory he should gain? 

I would become a drunken sot 
And never wipe out the stain. 

I would become an object of scorn, 

I would sink lower and lower, and then 

A homeless, ragged wretch forlorn, 

And despised of men. 

How shall I fight? What shall I do 
With this hot, angry thirst, 

That is striving so hard to bring me to 
That which is accursed? 

Against this fiend by which I am beset 
Must my striving be in vain? 

No, I will endure. I’ll bear it yet 
In spite of bitter burning pain! 

How is it that I should crave 
For what I would never taste? 

Is it a heritage I have 

From an ancestor who was debased? 

18 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Oh, where will the struggle end 

With this fiend who would close me in his net? 

Oh, how hard it is to with thirst contend 
When in the throat the fangs are set! 

But I will strive on, I’ve striven hard 

Against this fiend and his', attendant train of sin, 

But again I’ll strive, I’ll v/atch and guard 
And fight until I win. 

By denial I must break strand by strand 

The cord that binds me to this strong desire, 

It’s no use to try to quench a burning brand 
By using liquid fire. 


FLEETING 

Time is ever building, erecting 

Ephemeral structures as he is passing by. 

Then crumbling, disintegrating, 

In ruins along his path they lie. 

Hopes come, the heart elating, 

They are not here to stay, 

The pleasant time of mating 
Will pass like a summer day. 

Today Time may raise a figure heroic 
And blazon forth its fame, 

Tomorrow with the indifference of a stoic 
He will expunge the name. 

Today perhaps some figure reinstating. 

Bearing it on highest pedestal, 

While tomorrow is fating 
That in obscurity it fall. 

Sometimes through oblivion’s darkest, densest waves 
The fingers of Time are rifting, 

Things buried in age long graves 
To human view uplifting- 

Even oblivion’s strongest yoke 
Is not eternal. 

Oft the casket of hidden things is broke 
By time in his march diurnal. 

19 



MU8INGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


WHITHER SHALL I GO? 

I know where ferns are growing 
Deep in a mossy dell, 

I know where winds are blowing 
High on the heathy fell- 

Whither, oh! Whither, through the summer weather, 
Shall I rambling go? 

Up, up through the heather, 

Or down to the dell below? 

Shall it be to the heathery fell 
I go with the winds a-swing, 

Or down to the bosky dell 
In summer bourgeoning? 

Oh, well, I love them both, 

Oh, yes, I love them so, 

To both of them I plight my troth 
When I a-rambling go. 

Sunshine on the heather bloom, 

Saw you ever a sight more fair? 

Nowhere does such sweet perfume 
Pervade the ambient air. 

And the moonlight on the fell 
Bow soft the entrancing glow, 

The beauty of the moonlight on the fell, 

Few there be that know. 

But where the silver moonlight arrows 
Shoot downward through the dell, 

Piercing the dusky narrows, 

Where motley shadows weave their magic spell. 

Sound of streamlet splashing 
Among rocks cool and wet. 

Sometimes through moonlight flashing, 

Then hid in shadows dark as jet. 

Then gurgling, bubbling, gushing, 

By some rocky wall, 

Then downward headlong rushing 
In mimic waterfall. 


20 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


The voices of the night 

That come on the stilly air, 
The scenes that meet our sight, 
To us a message bear. 

The thoughts that to being start, 
Thoughts of things unknown, 
Bear a message to the heart— 
We hear it when alone. 


THE ORIGIN OF FLOWERS 

Time had come to birth 
But yet was very young, 

When first across a new-born earth 
The light of heaven was flung. 

From the abysses deep and dark 

Vapory clouds went sailing into space, 

When the sun caught his first glowing spark 
In the light of the Creator’s face. 

Flashing on through space and cloud 
Earthward sped the light, 

Rending the dark dreary shroud 
And set bounds into the night. 

As light shot through the vapory veil 
There were wonderful colors born, 

As night’s dusky shades began to pale 
On that first, glorious mom. 

God saw those colors and gathered them with care, 
And planted them on the earth 
They grew in wonderful beauty there. 

It was thus the flowers had birth- 

In beauty rich and rare 

Those wonderful colors grew, 

Colors for the brave and fair, 

Colors for the steadfast and true. 

To make angels He in haste began 

That by other eyes those beauties might be seen, 
He also made the race of Man 
About that time I ween. 

21 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


YALE OF EDEN 

Step softly stranger, where grows the primrose pale, 
For here the Eden flows 

In beauty through the fairest vale 
That any wanderer knows. 

In the hawthorn hedges 
You see the wilding rose 

On mossy banks and ledges 

Luxuriantly the foxglove grows. 

With buttercups and cowslips 
The fields are brightly starred 

And the playful lambkin skips 
Along the grassy sward. 

And see the beautiful daisies, 

Who can pass them without regard? 

Gems of field and wayside places 

Sung of by Scotland’s immortal bard. 

And the violet that lives so lowly 
Deep hid among the grass, 

Oh, traveler, please step slowly; 

Be heedful as you pass. 

To grass and flower in dell and nook 
Are jewelled dewdrops clinging, 

Everywhere by bower and brook 
Are happy wild birds singing. 

Oh, bonny stream of Eden, 

Flowing through sunshine and shade! 

Past bonny bowers of Eden 
And many a grassy glade. 

Oh, bonny woods of Eden, 

What angels are in their shade! 

The bonny maids of Eden, 

The fairest God has made. 

Fair is the vale of Eden, fair in her meadows; 

Fair within her bowers; 

Pleasant are her shadow's 

Her sunshine and her flowers. 

Oh, beautiful vale of Eden, 

The favored vale of God, 

When walking by the Eden, 

Step softly on the sod- 

22 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


LONG AGO 

A man sought the city’s busy haunts, 

Where crowds hurry to and fro, 

The sum of all his earthly wants 
To forget his inward woe, 

But the city’s noise and bustle could not forgetfulness bestow, 
Amid all the noise of crowded mart 
He but one sound could know 

Vibrating through his aching heart 
A voice of long ago. 

A man faced the Northern blast 
And vast solitude; of snow, 

Trying to leave behind the past 
And thoughts of long ago. 

Yet persistently memory’s stream would flow 

As the pale light gleamed athwart the desolate waste of snow, 
He sang the song that was in his heart; 

A song of long ago. 

A woman in a garden walks ’mid hollyhocks and four-o’clocks, 
And blossoms all aglow; 

Among her raven locks 

Some threads of silver show. 

The touch of time has, dulled the pain of anguish and woe, 
Her heart no longer feels the smart 
Of wounds of long ago. 

She sings the song in her heart 
’Tis a song of long ago 

And when closing our earthly parts 
Toilingly and slow, 

The songs in our hearts 
Will be songs of long ago. 

Throughout the years every memory tends to show 
That to the past tenaciously the heart will cling 
As by and by you’ll know, 

The only song that age will sing 
Is a song of long ago. 

The sweet scent will never depart 

From the blossoms we used to know, 

I treasure a flower in my heart— 

It blossomed long ago. 

And memories cluster 'round it now and make its colors glow, 
Those memories I would not forget 

They bring the sweetest thoughts I know, 

My heart goes gathering yet 
The flowers of long ago. 


23 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE WANDERER’S WOOING 

Of a nomad race he was bom, 

Some say of the wild Bedouin; 

Familiar alike with Morning Calm or Golden Horn 
And all the lands between. 

He had dwelt by Moab’s hills 
And roamed on Gobi’s plains; 

Had rested by Himalayan rills 
And by Hindu fanes 

To Africa’s southermost end 

This wanderer would sometimes roam; 

By hidden streams in gorges penned 
Where noisy cataracts foam. 

They met where once mailed crusaders rode 
To prove the Moslem steel, 

Those Christian knights who went abroad 
Fired with pious zeal. 

She was from another land 

Where the Anglo Saxon children spread. 

Where the red chief led his dusky bands 
Over trails with stealthy tread. 

They talked of places, things and men 
And strong their interest grew, 

Mischievious Cupid watching then 
His practiced bow he drew. 

The shaft went straight to the wanderer’s heart 
Then he began to woo, 

But Cupid awhile withheld the dart 
He meant, for the maiden too. 

The wanderer was of ardent kind 
And liked not long delay. 

And quick he sought some means to find 
To her heart to make his way. 

“Oh maid, but say thou wilt be mine, 

Make this earth Paradise for me; 

I and all I have is thine 
And happy we will be. 

2A 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


The costliest jewels of the mart 
They shall be thine I ween, 

And thou the idol of my heart, 

Thou wilt be my queen.” 

“’Tis not for jewels that I care 
Nor do they gladden my eyes, 

More than the beauty that all may share 
That on the landscape lies. 

But I would go from land to land 
Where beauty is bestowed, 

By Nature’s bounteous hand 

On the sphere of man’s abode.” 

“Not Shah or Sultan or Czar’s domain 
Shall our wandering footsteps keep; 

We’ll pitch our tents among hills of Spain 
Or where Iran’s glories sleep. 

We will follow the trail 
Of the dusty caravan, 

Till we reach the flowery vale 
Of ancient Ispahan. 

Where wantonly the rosy bowers 

Across the night their soft fragrance fling, 
We’ll sit through the moonlit hours 
And list the bulbhul sing. 

In Afghanistan we’ll travel mile by mile 
But ere wie pass them by, 

We will sojourn awhile 
With Ghazi and Ghilzai. 

We will climb the wind-swept pile 
Of bleak Beloor Tagh, 

Or descend the deep defile 

Of the dimlit Koojah Dagh. 

We will dwell awhile in gorgeous halls 
Of lordly old Delhi, 

Or seek sequestered dells 
Of hermit Dewallee. 

We will wander as the wild wind roves, 

And watch the golden moon 
Kise over the plumey groves 
That grow about Rangoon. 

25 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


In beauty spots of China and Japan 
For awhile we’ll stay, 

Then to the land of Ghengis Khan 
We will make our way. 

And where to the frozen sea a mighty river runs, 

Then southward we will turn 
To where flaming tropic suns 
Over the ocean bum 

And where gemlike isles 
Of the broad Pacific lie, 

And nature wears her sunniest smiles 
On land and sea and sky.” 

“Oh yes, those lands are beautiful, delightful scenes 
are there, 

But I would still demand 
To go where there are storms and cold to dare 
In some far Northern land,” 

’’Then we shall seek same far Canadian plain 
To hear the mournful Northwind sing, 

But we will turn again 

When birds take southward wing. 

For the far-off frozen North 
Is a land of savage mood, 

Bleak storms come drifting forth 
To chill the loving blood. 

The North’s chill icy bands 
Loving hearts will sear, 

In those frozen lands 

Nature’s heart is drear. 

So we’ll turn to the Southland, 

More joys for us abide 
In the warm, sunny Southland 
Than in all the world beside. 

We’ll make a home by flowing river 
On some grassy plain, 

We’ll pledge our love forever 
And live and love again.” 

“Oh! but I love the leavy bower; 

I love the forest’s gloom; 

I love every wilding flower 

That in the woodlands bloom.” 

26 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


“Oh, then we will seek a home 
In the groves of Oregon, 

There the springtime flowers come 
So fair to look upon. 

Happiness in our dwelling shall abound; 

We’ll live like turtle doves 
And children shall play around 
The crowning of our loves.” 

Cupid took his bow and set an arrow on 
And he surely hit the mark, 

For by the groves of Oregon 
They list to the meadow lark. 


THE TALL DARK MAN 

A stranger to our village came 
His face was darkly tan; 

We never knew his name 

So we called him the tall dark man. 

The gossips fain to know his history 
All his doings sought to scan, 

For they deemed there was a mystery 
About the tall dark man. 

Hie was bom in a distant land 
Beyond the Ganges flood, 

But Ganges washed not from his hand 
The deep dark stain of blood. 

Alone he wandered in many a land 
Yet no rest he found, 

There was blood upon his hand 
And in his heart a wound. 

At the fair or busy mart 

No matter how crowds might press 

Always in his heart 

Was a sense of loneliness. 

Other hearts with happiness might glow 
But his could know no happiness, 

Only a darker woe, 

Only a deeper distress. 

If for sorrow you have known 
A tear your eye should dim, 

Think of one unloved and lone 
And breathe a prayer for him. 

27 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE BOY IN DREAMLAND 

This is a story from Dreamland, 

Don’t think it is absurd, 

There are many things in Dreamland 
Of which we’ve never heard. 

A wonderful place is Dreamland 
With many things so nice. 

Oh, wonderful, wonderful Dreamland— 
Childhood’s paradise. 

There was once a little boy 

Whose companions were so few, 

He had not a single toy 
And little joy he knew- 

To Dreamland he often went 

And wonderful things were seen; 

Now I think indeed they were sent 
To show what might have been. 

One time he stood among withered boughs 
Deep in moss and grass they lay, 

They through the matted grass uprose 
From their bed of damp decay. 

Even the twigs that lay his feet betwix’ 

Arose to join the rest. 

Even the dry and matted sticks 
Built in the magpie’s nest. 

And each one circled ’round 

As if looking for its parent tree, 

Or a path on that untrodden ground 
An eerie sight to see. 

And the lonely little boy he stood 
In solitude so grey 

And watched those ancient relics of the wood 
Begin to glide away. 

Then what thoughts upon him hurl’d 
And crowded in his mind, 

He felt as one alone in all the world 
And had been left behind. 

It seemed no plan did him include, 

He could not follow where they’d gone, 

Heavy on him lay the weight of solitude; 

He was so little and so lone. 

28 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Then there came a change 
As oft in dreams there will, 

Then no one ever thinks it strange 
If a valley becomes a hill. 

He stood within castle walls 
In a place so desolate. 

As when the hand of ruin falls 
To fulfill decrees of fate. 

The stones with lichen and with damp 
To him looked green and grey, 

Tower, battlement and ramp 
Were crumbling in decay. 

Doors from their hinges sprung 
And started to glide away, 

Massive beams from their places wrung 
It seemed no wood could stay. 

And looking through doorless doorway then, 
And windowless window space, 

Unfilled voids, empty work of men 
That time would soon efface. 

He saw the sun shining bright on distant slope, 
A scene that was so fair, 

It seemed to the boy a land of hope 
Beyond the bounds of care. 

Then the voice of a window stone 
Broke on the stilly air, 

Speaking to the forlornly one 
As he stood wondering there. 

“Those boughs were rent and torn, 

Rent and tom from the tree, 

Children of Mature borne 
They are bom free. 

All the wealth man can command 
Within these walls are stdred, 

People of many a land will bow to the handi 
That holds the hidden sword. 

Long as sunlight falls, 

Falls on fallow and lea, 

We, the stones of thy castle walls 
We will stay with thee.” 

29 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Then again a change did chance. 

The eerie moonlight stole 
Out over a wild expanse 
And old grey ruined wall- 

Then another stone used the voice 
That had been silent for so long, 

Seldom had it spoke to little boys 
In poetry and song, 

“Long as moonlight falls 
Falls on things that be, 

We, the stones of thy castle walls, 

We will stay with thee,” 

Then a darkness came with sudden speight, 

A darkness that was so dense, 

A darkness whose black weight 
Lay heavy on each sense. 

Then another stone began to speak 
To the desolate little heart, 

That lived by itself so cold and bleak 
So far from the world apart. 

“As long as darkness falls, 

Falls on land and sea. 

We, the stones of thy castle walls, 

We will stay with thee.” 

Then all the stones they spoke, 

Their voices all blent in one, 

“We, we lie not in Death’s grim yoke, 

We are living stone. 

We, we are not blind to human woes 
Though the race to hardness us condemn, 
Our hearts can feel their throes 
And sympathize with them. 

And when thy heart for kindred calls, 

Calls across land and sea, 

We, the stones of thy castle walls, 

We will stay with thee.” 

Often through his childhood years 
This same dream would come, 

Till he sought solace for his griefs and fears 
In Dreamland as his home. 

30 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Thus he filled the void that was in his heart, 

A void that was so drear, 

And he became a solitary soul who lives apart 
In an isolated sphere. 

Uncomplaining he has bom his part, 

Borne it fair or foul, 

With longing ever in his heart 
To meet a kindred soul. 


THE PRAIRIE FIRE 

Look across the prairie waste, 

What light illumines the midnight sky? 

Those lurid tints are growing fast, 

There is a smell as the wind sweeps by. 

Why rush those beasts with panting sides? 
Why snort and sniff the air? 

’Tis because the fire king rides 

His steeds, Death and Terror there. 

See his flaunting, flaming plume 
That fills all hearts with fear; 

Harbinger of dreadful doom 
As he rushes in mad career- 

The path of his terrible scathe 
Marks the country afar, 

And vapors of his sulphury breath 
Enfold his triumphal car. 

Onward in his all-devouring lust 
He rides furious haste; 

Behind him is ashes and dust 
On a desolate, blacken’d waste. 

And it lies in the light of day 
Like a vast funeral pall; 

Whirlwinds with the ashes play, 

Rearing them into columns tall. 

That move across th land in devious ways 
Resembling huge tall chimneys smoking, 

Disappearing into the distant haze 
Like mighty giants stalking. 

31 



MU8INGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


SCENES OF THE WEST 

In the wildernesses of the West 
There are scenes sublime, 

By Nature nursed and caressed 
By the hand of hoary Time. 

Among those deep ravines 

And by those winding creeks, 

The winds sing their wildest peans, 

’Tis here that Nature speaks. 

Above rampart, battlement and scarp, 

The mountains rise with tower and dome, 
And rocky pinnacle bold and sharp, 

The goat’s retreat, the eagle’s home. 

And looking over the prairie wide 

Only human vision sets* limit to the view, 
And soft white fleecy clouds they ride 
Over skies intensely blue. 

Here and there a place of milder tone 
And some spot of softer green, 

With here and there boulder stone 
To enhance the scene. 


THE WOODS 

Some say so gloomy are the woods, 

So lonesome and dark, 

I find them suited to many moods, 

And beautiful as a park. 

Some say that woods are dreary, 

And sombre places of solitude, 

But I find them cheery, 

Bright and many-hued. 

Some say, so dismal are winter woods, 
That they are weird and dark, 

When stripped of their summer hoods 
That they are brown and stark. 

But oh! the woods, I love them, 

Whatever the season be, 

No matter what kind of sky is above them, 
They seem like home to me. 

32 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


BY THE EDEN 

Oh, why, through the vale of Eden 
Do my wandering fancies rove? 

Because in the vale of Eden 
There is my treasure trove. 

Oh, why, through the woods of Eden 
Are my wandering fancies wove? 

Because among the woods of Eden 
Dwells the one I love. 

Oh, why, by the waters of Eden 
Do my wandering fancies rest? 

Because by the river Eden 
Lives one I love the best. 


BEREAVED 

I stood on a grassy slope 
Overhead the skylark sung, 

My heart was full of hope— 

That day when I was young. 

I looked down on the bay 

Where I saw the big ships lie, 

Many sailed out that day 
Beneath a mackerel sky. 

There was sunshine on the land 
And sunshine on the sea, 

Yet that day an angel hand 
Led away my love from me. 

And sorrow like a flooding tide 
Swept heavy over my heart, 

That day my loved one died, 

Ah! how hard it was to part. 

There was sunlight on the shore 
And sunlight on the sea, 

An angel ship sailed out and bore 
My love to heaven from me. 

The light grew dim on the shore, 

The light grew dim on the sea, 

The light in the eyes of one of the angel band 
Is now the only light I see. 

33 



MU8ING8 OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE HOBOMAN 

He was raggedy and worn, 

Dressed on scarecrow plan, 

So tatterdy and torn 
Was the hoboman. 

He asked to be allowed to stay 

They couldn’t tell if his complexion was dirt or tan, 
So into the haybay 

They put the hoboman. 

In the wind the treetops sw ! ay, 

Rain falls as if pouring from a can, 

But snug in the haybay 
Was the hoboman. 

Two scoundrels plotting harm 
When the heavy rain began, 

In the bam sought shelter from the storm 
But they knew not of the hoboman. 

Very still he lies and hears what they say 
As they talk over their plan, 

Not knowing that back in the haybay 
Lay the hoboman. 

Thinks he, “These rogues are giving their plan away, 
I’ll spoil it if I can.” 

So silent in the haybay 
Lay the hoboman. 

The two rascals left the barn 
To carry out their plan; 

“Now the farmer I will warn,” 

Said the hoboman. 

He shouted, “Before you start foul play 
Or carry out your plan. 

Remember back in the haybay 
Was a hoboman. 

“Farmer, in your window show no light. 

And don’t come out till light of day, 

There are two rascals in the night 
Waiting to take your life away.” 

He thought they had gone away, 

Says he, “I bet those beggars ran,” 

So back into the haybay 
Went the hoboman. 


34 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Next morning soon after break of day 

Through the crowd a shuddering horror ran, 
When dead in the haybay 
They found the hoboman. 

A knife wound was in his breast, 

He was cold as any clay, 

In the haybay in eternal rest 
The martyred hobo lay. 

Those murderers before they went away 
In revenge for thwarting of their plan, 

Had gone into the haybay 
And slain the hoboman. 

Many years have passed away, 

As might close a mortal’s span, 

That farmer and his haybay 

Was known to many a hoboman. 


OLD CHEYENNE. 

At that time he was young— 

Scarce a grown up man, 

When to the west the trail was flung 
From the street of old Cheyenne. 

With hand on bridle rein 
And the courage of a man 
He rode out to the dusty plain 

Through the street of old Cheyenne. 

When grown to manhood’s prime 
And he was a busy man, 

He often thought of the time 

When he rode through old Cheyenne. 

He came again when laden with years 
Near to life’s allotted span, 

And looked through blinding tears 
For marks of old Cheyenne. 

During the Frontier days 
He would often scan 
The hurrying traffic’s bewildering maze 
For the street of old Cheyenne. 

35 



MUSINOS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


EOSE 

I walked in God’s garden, the garden of the earth, 

And chose a flower for beauty and for worth- 

Of all the flowers that in the garden grows, 

None can compare with the matchless beauty and fragrance 
of the rose, 

Flowers sweet and fair are in dewy mead and leafy woodland 
seen, 

Of all the charms that they can boast my own sweet Eose 
was queen. 

On dewy mom or eve when from each flower its sweetest fra¬ 
grance flows, 

There was none so sweet and beautiful as my own dear Eose. 

I lived in joy and gladness, time flew unheeded past, 

Nor did I dream such joy as mine, and happiness would not 
last, 

I forgot all the world and its little joys, I forgot all its cares 
and woes, 

I lived in an Elysian land when I was with my Eose. 

I yielded my soul unto my love, enraptured, how heedlessly I 
trod 

Beside her, I forgot all earth and heaven, I even forgot mv 
God. 

Not so far to me the orb of day that over the earth its glorious 
radiance throws, 

To me the only sun in heaven was my beloved Eose. 

It seemed as though all beauty had left the earth and all the 
light had left the sky, 

When I watched my beloved flower and saw her droop and die. 

I thought all joy had left the world and my heart felt all its 
woes, 

So dark the sorrow and the sadness when I lost mv Eose. 

Earth may still be beautiful and flowers be sweet and fair. 

But in garden, field, or woodland for me no flower is there 

In vale, on hill, or plain for me no blossom grows. 

I have no flower in all the world since I lost my Eose. 

Other flowers I pass them heedless by, for me thev have no 
charm, 

In the shadow of the black cloud on the sky the sunbeams 
do not warm. 

I feel the breath of chilling frost in every wind that blows, 

For me the bright light left the earth when I lost my Eose. 

36 




BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Long, long some memories live and of some memories we are 
fond, 

But hope springs eternal in human heart, I have hope in 
the great beyond. 

And when clouds are blown from the skies and past are earthly 
throes, 

Blooming yet among fadeless flowers of Paradise, I shall 
find my Bose. 


CAREL CROSS 

On the plain in shine or rain 
I’m herding for the Boss; 

When by some stream I rest and dream, 

I dream of Carel Cross. 

To see the primrose bloom and diffuse perfume 
From its bed of soft cool moss, 

Back I’ll come to my dear loved home, 

And back to Carel Cross. 

I will brave the ocean wave 

Though it play at pitch and toss, 

Though gales may blow I’ll surely go 
Back to Carel Cross. 

If times be good as I think they should, 

Or as the American calls it “boss”, 

There’ll be joy for the wandering boy 
When back at Carel Cross- 

In the west a toilsome quest 
Does all my time engross, 

But I’ll find rest and I’ll like it best 
When near to Carel Cross. 

Chance of wealth I may lose but though it goes 
I’ll forget the gain or loss, 

When I place my feet upon the street 
That leads to Carel Cross. 


All other pleasures of earth to me seem of little worth, 
Or only as the dross, 

To the joy of friends to meet, friends to greet 
When back at Carel Cross. 

37 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE HOMESTEADER 

He was one who fought his fight 
On life’s long battle field, 

And ranks with those men of might 
Who their weapons well did wield. 

To the fight he boldly pressed on 
Unshrinking and unafraid, 

And well were his triumphs won 
Without pomp or parade. 

He never tried the fight to shun, 

He was of a bold brigade, 

Instead of handling sword and gun 
He wielded fork and spade. 

For strength he to God gave thanks, 

He was a warrior born, 

Before him fell the serried ranks— 

The ranks of grass and corn. 

He needed not tap of drum or bugle call 
To rouse him to the fray, 

He answered to the muster roll- 
Before the break of day 

Oft to Phoebus’ car he had hitched the team 
And begun the day, 

Ere the first glinting gleam 
Had pierced the gloomy grey. 

What he couldn’t accomplish in the day 
He oft finished in the night, 

For Nature’s forces oft held him at bay 
And he must force the fight- 

He subdued the wilding land 
That yielded not before, 

From it he wrested tribute with mighty hand 
And added to the world’s store. 

Discomforts of snow and rain, 

Oh! yes, he knew them all! 

With attendant evils of their train, 

Or mishaps that might befall. 

Sultry heat and stinging cold 
His courage well had tried, 

But he was a warrior bold 
With all a conqueror’s pride. 

38 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


The storm’s might, the blizzard’s bite 
At them he never shied, 

Even the levin’s lowing flight 
He had oft defied. 

One eve. the setting sun shone on fields of green, 
On fields that were so wide 
A solemn hush lay on the scene— 

A hero just had died. 


WHY? 

Oh, why is my brain so weary? 

Oh, why is my heart so sad? 

Why seems the world so dun and dreary, 
With -those around me glad? 

Why seems the world so cold and grey, 
Why looks all so sombre and sear, 

Unwarmed, unlightened by sunny ray 
That strives in vain to cheer. 

Moping as the dull owl 

And weary as heavy as stone, 

W|ith weary mind and drooping soul 
I feel so sad and lone. 

How can I join that mirthful band 
And act the lightsome part, 

When chill depression’s Icy hand 
Lies heavy on my heart. 

Yet times have been when I have known 
A wild, delirious joy, 

And happiness seemed for me alone 
To be without alloy. 

I knew not, nor cared to know 
What was the reason why 

That within my soul should glow 
A light as from high. 

I know not why the light was withdrawn 
Or how the elation died, 

It seemed as by a black wave overthrown 
And plunged beneath a stygian tide. 

39 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE TOPER 

“The sun is shining on the fields, 

A gladsome sight to see, 

To some it a pleasure yields, 

To them a pleasure may it be. 

But not for that will I go out 
And leave the brimming booze, 

I will drink the beer and stout 

Till its soaking through my shoes. 

There is much noise adown the town. 

Maybe it is great news, 

Attracting coof and clown, 

For such it will amuse. 

But not for that will I go out 
And leave celestial joy. 

Let them run and glaik about 
Who know no better employ. 

There is cheering outside 

And many fair women pass, 

Even they, it cannot be denied 
Are oft attracted by the glass. 

But not an eye I’ll blink 

Till I’ve had quantum suff 
I’ll not even bat a wink 
Until I’ve had enough.” 

Then he took another swig 
And he fell off his chair, 

His cronies just let him lig, 

They were too drunk to care. 

If you’d been there you’d have heard the landlord say 
“You must get up and go, 

For here you cannot stay, 

It is against the law. 

Now, good fellows, drink all you can, 

As long as you carry it so, 

But here I can’t allow a drunken man, 

It is against the law. 

Those who to taverns repair, 

Tempted to drink beyond discretion, 

’Tis better to have a care 
As to your condition. 

40 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Whether it be frost or hail, 

Or be it rain or snow, 

You must get out into the gale, 

No matter how the wind may blow.” 


A DREAM I THINK I’LL TELL 

I had a dream the other night, 

A dream I think I’ll tell, 

I dream’t I took a flight 

Beyond where mortals dwell. 

I rose above the earth like aerial things 
And glided like a bird, 

By the beat of my unseen wings 
The air was scarcely stirred. 

And Oh! The beauty that I could see, 

As over the earth I flew, 

Myriad flowers looked up to me 
With eyes of heavenly blue. 

I visited lands unknown 

That only in dreams are seen, 

And in that wonderful zone 

Live things that never have been- 

I came to the scene of earthquake shocks 
For such did the signs portray, 
Among tumbled, grimy rocks 
Lay piles of ashes grey 

Over which a figure crouched moodily 
And in deep dejection sat, 

Bending over the ashes broodily 
Like some huge grimy bat. 

Through its grimy cover 

That figure, I'seemed to know it well, 
It was Satan brooding over 
The cold, dead ashes of hell. 


41 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE RECRUIT 

As the morning breaks the lark awakes 
Under the paling star. 

The laborer his slumber shakes, his way he takes 
To fields of fair Durdar. 

By field and dyke and shelterd syke 
Where buttercups and violets are, 

By vale and wyke is not the like 
Of green fields of Durdar. 

The singing bird, the lowering herd, 

The farmer’s rattling car, 

These sounds are heard and kindly word 
Of peaceful folks of fair Durdar. 

The country lass, I see her pass, 

Fresh as the daisy’s bonny star, 

In the green mass of waving grass, 

In the fields of fair Durdar. 

On flower the brown bees throng, winds whisper the woods 
among, 

Elysian fields are excelled by far, 

Birds carol their sweetest song, the sunlight lingers long 
In fields ’round fair Durdar. 

All this again I may never see, Oh, think how it feels to me! 
To join the ranks of war, 

Think what it means to leave behind those peaceful scenes 
And fields of fair Durdar. 

To risk a fall by shell or ball 
And the red battle scar, 

But at Duty’s call I leave it all 
And fair maids of Durdar. 


IN AUTUMN 

Fruits have attained their mellowness, 
All ripe for winter cheer, 

Leaves have donned the yellowness 
That foretells the coming sear. 

Fringing ice where the river flows 
Tells that winter’s near 
In the cool wind from northern snows 
Is the sigh of a dying year. 

42 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


UNCLE JAKE 

Old Uncle Jake lias notions, 

His knowledge is profound. 

He’ll argue on anything on any side of the oceans— 
His arguments are sound. 

He boasts he never put water in his whiskey yet, 

He abhors adulteration, 

He can drink whiskey too, you bet, 

On any and every occasion. 

Those good old times he would recall 

When people drank whiskey instead of beer, 

And water was never drunk at all, 

It made people feel so queer. 

Indeed, it was regarded as something bad 
A virulent kind of poison, 

If any the water drinking habit had 

It was something to hush their noise on. 

People then understood little of effect or cause 
But any offense they’d nab it, 

And rigidly enforce the laws 
To check such vicious habit. 

People think they are wiser now 
And drink water by the gallon, 

A filthy habit is, I swow 
Begun by some rapscallon. 

If Uncle Jake but had his way 

There would be something doin’. 

There might be the devil to pay, 

But he’d save the world from ruin. 

All kinds of drink from the world he’d strip, 

Except the very best, 

Permit only those that for strength and grip 
Could stand the crucial test. 

If to him that matter was left 
And he was appointed tester, 

He’d show he was both capable and deft, 

And prove himself a Nestor. 

He would make everyone take their drink 
In beverage alcoholic, 

From it they shouldn’t shrink, 

‘Tis a sure cure for colic. 

43 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


His medicine he liked it pure, 

For him no vile concoction, 

If people would only take his cure 
And combat disease by suction. 

Huh! water wholesome! If any that ridiculous notion got, 
Into his puny pate 
He should be served good and hot 
And held excommunicate. 

Water drinkers should be denied bite or sup, 

They should be marked for slaughter, 

As in days when churches banned all sides up 
Those caught drinking water. 

They should be put to lie on spiked beds, 

Or maybe rent asunder, 

Vials of wrath poured on their heads 
And the Church’s holy thunder. 

They should be made to pay a fine 
Amounting high in dollars, 

And compelled to drink a butt of wine, 

And wear hemp or iron collars. 

’Tis strange how over some newfangled thing or fad 
Some people will get daffy, 

What queer names and substitutes they had 

For what in old times was simply known as “taffy.” 

He said, “Uncle I am to every one, 

I have a right to teach ’em, 

I will not my duty shun 
If I can only reach ’em.” 

To Washington he would go 
Or maybe to Shyann, 

And he would make the liquor flow 
Like a brave and noble man. 

And he would see that laws were made, 

Just as they ought to be, 

He would put a tax on lemonade, 

And make whiskey free. 

That he very surely would 

See that laws were set' in motion. 

Those who desired water as drink or food 
Should be made to drink the ocean. 

44 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


The world he surely would reform 
By measures firm and drastic, 

He’d scotch the prohibition worm 
Till it grew procrastic. 

The temperance fellows he'd fill with fear, 

They’d never more get scoffy, 

Yes, perhaps he’d allow them a little beer, 

Just enough to make their coffee- 

He would stop the soft drink vice, 

Such stuff gave him the “shivers.” 

The earth would be a paradise 
If whiskey flowed in rivers. 

If people of it freely would partake 
And industriously absorb it, 

A better world it would make 

While this old planet wobbles on its orbit. 

Such nectar would improve the mind, 

It would improve the muscles, 

Bodies would be spiritually inclined 
And needless of corpuscles. 

And the world would bless Uncle Jake, 

Professor of useful knowledge, 

About his system could be no mistake, 

Proper drinking should be taught in school and 
college. 

Another drink for Uncle Jake 
And hope of many more, 

He tried hard his thirst to slake 
While there was drink in store. 

Supreme the joy of Uncle Jake, 

How cruel to dash it, 

For just then he saw a snake 
And he tried to smash it. 

He saw monkeys with twenty tails 
Kun on a piebald string, 

Creeping horses and galloping snails 

And wriggly things danced round him in a ring. 

He saw pendulums standing still 
Their clocks were all aswing, 

He saw water that ran uphill 

And many a hairy, horrid thing. 

45 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


He saw fishtailed mules and pigs with wings, 
With reptiles strange and queer , 

And too, some quite undesirable things 
Insisted on coming near. 

For awhile wild carnival held 

With all those things around him, 

Though he fought and yelled, 

At last they surely downed him. 

Some folks said he had got D. T’s, 

Some said ’delirious trimmin’, 

Some said he’d drank the Seven Seas 
And thought the fish were wimmen. 

Now you see when Uncle Jake 
Can get such a joyful jag on, 

It would be a great mistake 

For him to get on the water wagon. 

The queer things he saw 
Could surely beat a circus, 

And it is well to see a show 
When things begin to irk us. 


IN A DRY STATE 

Yearn ye, guts of mine, 

I am so awfully dry, 

Yearn for rum, whisky or wine— 

Oh, for the good old rye! 

I try to be cheerful but it ain’t no use 
I could almost cry; 

I feel like a very gone goose 
When all the pools are dry. 

How can I be cheerful without any booze? 
’Taint no use to try; 

I’m just shrivelling in mV shoes, 

I am so awfully dry. 

’Tis indeed a very hard case 
To rob a man of his rye. 

This country’s a very bum place— 

It’s just like hell when it’s dry. 

46 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


THE INEVITABLE 

There is something in the future near 
It is not far away, 

It may come to meet me here, 

Even now—today. 

My mind reverts to other times 

In light of memory shining clear, 

And thoughts come like silver chimes 
Of days of yesteryear. 

In fancy, again I see the sunlit hills, 

I see them growing green, 

Again the air with music thrills 
As woods don their leafy screen. 

I see the buds swell and wax, 

The earth in beauty grows, 

I see the blue of fairy flax 
And warm colors of the rose. 

The scythe of time still cuts swath, 

I know the blade is near, 

I turn and gaze down the flower-strewn path 
Of days of yesteryear. 

To the inevitable we all must bow 
And I will not repine, 

Not heaven itself can rob me now 
Of joy that once w r as mine. 


PASSING THE WINTER 

When ice is on the river 
And snow is on the hill. 

And the wind makes me shiver— 

I find it rather chill. 

When frost sprites their powers abuse 
And set Boreal winds at play, 

Then I w r oo the muse 

And rhyme the day away. 

When cold is a hummer 

And all the ground is w r hite, 

Then I dream dreams of summer 
Through the winter night. 

47 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


GAFFER A.ND GAMMER 

“Thoo mun feed meh weel gammer, 

Thoo mun keep meh strang, 

Ah’s sure gittin’ varra wammer 
An ah’s varra thrang” 

“Aweel gaffer, weel.” 

“Noo gaffer git oot in’t mworning airly 
A21” git tha t’ the field, 

An’ see ye sow the barley 

Seah there’ll be rowthy yield” 

“Aweel, gammer, ’weel.” 

“Noo gammer git meh summat good to eat 
For ah ameast is starved, 

Ceuk for meh a rwost o’ meat 
As good as ivver was carved.” 

“Aweel gaffer, weel.” 

“Noo git oot in’t mwomin’ airly 
An’ git tha’ te the field. 

An’ throo the bearded barley 
Drive the shinin’ steel.” 

“Aweel, gammer, weel.” 

“Noo gammer, thoo mun mek a ceak 
An’ mak’t varra gud, 

Ah’ want it for meh stommik’s seak, 

Its sure in lack o’ food.” 

“Aweel, gaffer, weel.” 

“Noo gaffer git oot in’t mwornin’ airly 
Am’ git tha’ te the field, 

An’ thsoo’t stubble burly 
Drive the shinin’ steel.” 

“Aweel, gammer, weel.” 

“An’ see thee plew is clean 

Am’t mowd bwurd shinin’ breet 
A meal as gud as ivver was seen 
Thoo’ll come tuah at neet.” 

“Aweel gammer, weel.” 


48 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


CUMBERLAND 

Here’s to Cumberland’s tarns and mires 
And to her fields and fells, 

Her cottage homes, her old church spires, 

And her bonny, bowery dells- 

Here’s to the beauty of her woodland ways, 

And her fells of misty blue, 

The throstle’s song, the blackbird’s lays 
And the cry of the wild curlew. 

By every Cumbrian beck that flows 
There freedom still abides 
And sings in every wind that blows 
Across her “Oald Fellsides.” 

And still I am a Cumbrian yet, 

And fsel I always will, 

For I never, never can forget 
Each bonny, thorny gill. 

Many a son of Cumbria roves 
Away across the main, 

Green be the holly in her groves 
Until they come again. 

Cumberland! Thy children have gone south and north, 
They have gone to the east and west, 

And those who have wandered farthest forth 
Perchance may love thee best. 

The night comes down on hill and plain 
And though tired we may be, 

We lie us down to dream again 
Of a land beyond the sea. 

Blessings on homes of those that dwell 
In thee by vale and moor and sea, 

But yet our words can never tell 
How much we think of thee. 

Wherever we be by night or day 
It still must be confessed, 

Nothing can win our hearts away 
From the land of the throstle’s nest. 


49 



MUSINGS OF A SEEEPHERDER 


FLOWERS OF THE WAYSIDE 

November gloom was on the land 
And gusty the wind that blew, 

Around me on every hand 
The sear dead leaves flew. 

I saw some flowers by the wayside, 

A daisy white and a flower with bells of blue; 
Oh, sweet wild flowers of the wayside, 

My heart it loveth you. 

Sweet daisy of the wayside, 

And you, the sweet bluebell, 

What suffering you must abide 
In blasts from off the fell. 

Sweet ones that dwell by the wayside 
To delight the passer-by, 

Though I am tramping by the wayside, 

We are kindred, you and I. 

Sweet children of the wayside, 

Alas for you and I, 

What storms and woes betide 
Beneath life’s wintry sky. 

You must bear the bitter blast 
And so of course must I, 

On us the days of gloom are coming fast 
And the time we die. 

Well you have done your part 
And well I’ve tried for mine, 

But often bore an aching heart 
Of Avhich I gave no sign. 

Patiently you have lived 
And bravely so have I, 

And he who has bravely lived 
Can as bravely die. 


50 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


OOAR JWOAP 

Ooar Jwoap he dissent leik ta work 
It tires him seah sair, 

He’s aboot as lazy as any Turk 
’Cept when he ga’s te Carel Fair. 

Then the drink he can put doon— 

It sure is a seet, 

Ah’s sure nut a man in’t toon 
At that Ooar Jwoap could beat. 

An’ he drinks at sic a rate 
An’ drinks whisky neat, 

He’ll hardly keep a minnit frae’t 
’Cept when he sits doon te eat. 

H,e’ll crack an’ jaw an’ think he’s funny 
An’ acts leik yen that ins’t reet, 

As lang es he’s got any munney 

He’ll guzzle frae mworn till neet. 

He’ll sit roond efter roond 
Drinkin’ till he’s a freet, 

Sic chaps as him wad aw be droon’d 
If things war aw deun reet. 


THE RIBALD ROOSTER CROWED 

The old lame duck was down on her luck 
And disconsolately waddled abroad, 

Things were so dry she couldn’t even find a tear in her eye 
And a ribald rooster crowed. 

A girl and a boy in a ride of joy 
Came speeding down the road, 

A tire bust in a cloud of dust— 

And a ribald rooster crowed. 

You may feel so bad, so all-fired sad, 

And so burdened down with woes, 

But must bear the ill-timed jest 1 of some noisy pest 
When a ribald rooster crows. 

51 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


ON HEARING THE CUMBRIAN DIALECT SPOKEN FOR 
THE FIRST TIME IN TEN YEARS 

What soond is’t ’at greets meh ear 
An’ meks meh heartstrings bang, 

A soond ah hev’nt heeard for menny a year. 

Its’t good oald Cmmnerland Twang. 

What thowts it brings o’ tarn an’ beck, 

That thowts o’fell an’ gill, 

These are t’ thowts that ivver mek 
The hearts o’ Cumbrians thrill. 

Ah fancy ah wander agean throo Denton holms 
Where Natur’s bonniest gems are growein, 

Or stan’ agean on Sebergham Brig 
An’ watch the Cawda flowein’. 

On Denton side here be it sead 

The chorry tree blossoms finely, 

On’t bonniest spot that God has mead, 

He mead it se divinely. 

Ah mind weel when te scheul ah’d been 
Even then ah’d nivver tire 
O’ geazin’ on that bonny scene 
That God an’ men admire. 

To see these pleaces as yence ah saw them, 

May t’ gift to me be given, 

As in meh inmost heart ah know them, 

To see them agean ah pray ’at ah be livin’. 

But Summer’s dewy mworns are cornin’ 

For time is on the march, 

When t’ busy bees in t’ woods are hunrmin’ 

An’ t’ whurl is on the larch. 

When t’ blossoms are on the thworn 
An’t’ whin is like a golden fleame, 

Ah’ll gan back te t’ pleace where ah was bwom 
An’t’ dear oald woods at heame. 

Ah’H gan where when a lad hoors ah spent 
Below t’ hawthworn’s arch, 

An’ ah’ll te the woods to breathe scent 
O’ the whurl upon the larch. 

Thowts throo meh mind keep croodin’ 

Theear’s a feeling in meh heart ah cannot neame, 

But heart an’ mind are broodin’ 

Ower t’ dear oald woods at heame. 

52 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


MY BELOVED VALE 

There is a vale where my heart abides 
With meadows sweet and green 
Purling streams and sunny hillsides, 

The fairest man has seen. 

And this my beloved vale 

’Neath God’s special care was made, 

So its beauty could not fail 
Through all its sun and shade. 

A kindly God his wish had spoke 

Then Nature smiled upon the pleasant land, 
And wreath’d her with the sturdy oak 
And slender willow wand. 

The beauty that God has given 
You will find still undefiled 
And living among the bowers of heaven 
The people are unbeguiled. 

Oh, the twists of fortune the fates have given! 

If but my home was there 
For me it would be enough of heaven, 

I’d wish for none more fair. 

There the Caldew flows along 
Singing on her winding way, 

And ever through my heart that song 
Will sing until stilled in the clay. 


BONNIE DAWSTON HAW 

In sunlit meedows shadows are gallopin’ throo 

An’ ower the daisy spangled grass on the bonny broo, 
Where warm the sunbeams faw, 

0 oo breet they gleam wid leetsome beam 
On bonnie Dawston Haw. 

Frae Dawston te Cummersdale 
Theear is a bonnie grassy vale, 

Where Cawda’s limpid watter’s seen 
Glancin’ past in glassy sheen. 

Heegh moonted on balanced wings 
Hoo thrillin’ly the skylark sings, 

An’t’ world bathed in summer leet 
A fair and gladsome seet 
Is bonnie Dawston Haw. 

53 



MUSINGS OF A 8 HEEPHERDER 


BACK TO THE EAETH 

When I’m beyond the sailing clouds, 

Where is sung the heavenly song, 

I’ll be thinking of fields and woods 
That I have roved among. 

Among angel bands and all their heavenly glee, 
I’ll listen for the songs of earth again, 

For the curlew on the lea 

And the linnet down the lane- 

Pearly gates and golden harps are of little worth 
Indeed they are very vain, 

And for the music of the earth 
My soul will be so fain. 

The glittering mansions grand 
Will be no home to me, 

Like a humble cot on earthly strand, 

Looking over the sea. 

For me it would be far more sweet 
To roam through the sylvan shades, 

Or sit where singing waters meet, 

To glance through bosky glades 

The woods and streams, 

The valleys and the hills 
Are ever present in my dreams, 

For so my soul it wills. 

Folks say this earth is a vale of tears, 

A place of little joy, 

Gloomed over with shadows and fears, 

And troubles that annoy. 

And every mortal that comes to birth 
Must suffer grief and pain, 

But yet among the scenes of earth 
My soul would live again. 


54 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


MY NATIVE LAND 

It is a sunny morning, a morning of beauty rare 
Upon a bill I stand 
And look upon my native land 

A landscape spread in beauty there. 

As I look around fresh beauties still I find, 

Fields and hedgerows, slope and bushy gill, 

Splendid in beauty is Torkin’s wooded hill 

And vales where Chalk and 'VMampool wind. 

I’ve seen other lands bask’d in Nature’s smile 

On foreign plains I’ve seen wealth of beauty there 
But the scenes of my native land, what scenes are so fair? 
Unsurpassed in beauty is my native Isle. 

The beauty of Switzerland none can deny 

But the beauty of my native land is matched not anywhere 
In beauty my native vales are beyond compare 

What scenes in all the world can so delight the eye. 

Of scenes in other lands travelers may tell 
And laud them to the skies 
And tell of damsels who bear off beauty’s prize 
And declare all others they excel. 

There is no place in all the world, no, not anywhere 
But Cumbrian hills and Cumbrian glades 
Cumbrians scenes and Cumbrian maids 
Are fairest among the fair. 

Though born in a land with wondrous beauties blest 
Though I love it, yet still, I must confess 
I love the freedom of the far-off wilderness 

And I will return again to the wildernesses of the West. 

Though through scenes of grandeur I may chance to roam 
All my thoughts and memories tend to show that 
And in my inmost heart I know that 

To some English dale a thought will wander home. 


55 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


BANKS OF THE EOE 

Flowing through, a hazely dell, 

A little stream I know, 

There’s honeysuckle and foxgloves bell 
On the beautiful banks of the Koe. 

Through the dell gently descending, 

The waters softly flow, 

With the sweets of nature blending 
By the beautiful banks of the Roe. 

In covert, sweet and tender 
The pale primroses grow, 

Springtime promise of summer splendor, 

On the beautiful banks of the Roe. 

And nature she embosses 
The scars of long ago, 

With green and golden mosses 

On the beautiful banks of the Roe. 

And the feathery fronded ferns 
In dim recesses grow, 

A thousand charms the eye discerns 
On the beautiful banks of the Roe. 

Down mossy boles the sunlight falls in golden plash, 
In the warmth that summer can bestow’, 

And ivy wreathes the oak and ash 
On the beautiful banks of the Roe. 


REVISITING OLD SCENES 

Again I stand on Wamel Fell 

After more than twenty years are gone, 
And the places I remember well 
Again I am looking on. 

I trace through w T oodland maze— 

Ninegills and Hazel Gill 
Where I rambled oft in boyhood days 
And Sebergham Castle and Round Hill. 

And those places where I used to ramble 
In many a thorny dell, 

Overgrown with briar and bramble, 

Oh, yes! I know them well. 

56 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


And lying before me plain 
Is Broadmoor and the stint, 

As thwart the drops of falling rain 
The watery sunbeams glint. 

I see the Height and Brocklebank, 

A stretch of moorland sweep, 

And Caldbeck Fells whose guardian rank 
Nature’s treasures keep. 

And there is the vale where Caldew flows 
What lovely scenes are there! 

The God who made it knows 
There is no place more fair. 

As if held by magic band 

My heart lives yet by wood and gill, 

Oh, dear to me my native land, 

I dearly love it still. 


TO R. J. O. 

Dear friend of my boyhood days, we have rambled oft together, 
Through winter days and summer’s pleasant weather; 

We have roamed about the stint where whins are growing rank 
And we have sat together on many a flowery bank. 

By wood and water we spent many a pleasant day, 

Not thinking future days might not be bright as they; 
Where the water leaps and sparkles, where a stream babbles by, 
Many happy hours were passed by you and I, 

In pools of the Chalkbeck we would often wade, 

Oh, we had haunts by Chalkbeck in the hawthorn shade; 
Those haunts of our boyhood days still to me are dear, 

But we have not met by Chalkbeck for many a year. 

We have not met for more than twenty years, and I know not 
where you are; 

We both have gone our ways and mayhap have traveled far; 
Those old scenes by Chalkbeck I will visit by and by, 

But in the time that is coming, will we meet, You and I? 


57 



MUSINOS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


WHO WOULD NOT PITY THEM 

Some have leagued to stop the drink 
In county and in town, 

Do they ever stop to think 

That all are willing to put it down. 

They utter bans and banalities 
Against John Barleycorn, 

They have invented pains and penalties 
Most grievous to be borne. 

Like horses about their stamping ground 
Men stand in thirsty groups, 

We see them hanging ’round 
In perishing thirsty troops- 

They cannot get the old red top, 

Although they’ve got the cash, 

They must be content with ginger pop 
Instead of sour mash. 

Sadly they are standing by 

Although they know it is no use, 

They cannot get the real red eye, 

Or fine old corn juice. 

At last they have dispersed 

By desperation urged to the brink 

They seek to quench a real red thirst 
Bv some soft, insipid drink. 

If you have any feeling got, 

Would you anyone to such misery condemn? 

And seeing this much disgruntled lot, 

Who would not pity them? 


THOUGHTS OF MY BOYHOOD HOME 

A sweet, solemn hour I find 
As I watch the day depart, 

Then what memories Waken in the mind, 
What feelings crowd the heart! 

When the night comes stealing down 

And stars glint in heaven’s high dome, 

A deep, deep feeling in my heart I own 
And memories awake of my boyhood home- 
58 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


There the heather is blooming on moorland 
and fell, 

Will I ever see it again? 

Or the foxglove and sweet bluebell, 

And the wild rose in the lane? 

And the blossom on the thorn 
And the bloom on the whin, 

Or hear the corncrake in the corn 
Or the rook’s clamorous din? 

Or see the skylark rising free 
As the morn has just awoke, 

Or the berries on the holly tree 
And leaves upon the oak? 

Will I hear again the huntsman’s horn 
From the fields of far away? 

Those merry notes through woodlands borne 
That cheer the winter day. 

You who have never been away from home, 

Oh, can you understand 
The feelings that creep over the heart at 
the gloam, 

When away from your native land? 


DALSTON HALL 

In sunlit meadows shadows are galloping through 

And over the daisy spangled grass on the bonny brow 
Where warm the sunbeams fall 
How bright they gleam with lightsome beam 
On bonny Dalston Hall. 

From Dalston to Cummersdale 
There is a bonny grassy vale, 

Where Caldew’s limpid water is seen 
Glancing past is glassy sheen- 

High mounted on balanced wings 
How thrilling the skylark sings 
And the world is bathed in summer light 
A fair and gladsome sight 
Is bonny Dalston Hall. 


59 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE CURLEW AND THE DOVE 

The wild curlew of the moor 'and fell 
Was smitten with the arrow of love, 

So he came flying down to the dell 
To woo the woodland dove. 

“Oh, lady of the lofty trees, 

The woods are no fit 1 home for thee, 
Come enjoy the moorland breeze 
In my moorland home with me. 

The moorlands sweet odors give 

Of dewy grass and daisy crimson rimmed, 
And royally we shall live 

And our cup of love be brimmed. 

Life on the moor and fell is sweet 
With romping winds at play, 

Where the frisky lambkins bleat 
And we’ll be blythe as they. 

And we’ll be up at break of day 
And the day one long sweet song, 

Oh, lady, come, oh come away, 

Oh, come with me along.” 

“Oh, seek thee a moorland mate, 

One of the moorland kind, 

For us sorrow would await, 

No happiness would we find. 

I’ll not go with a moorland wooer, 

I know it would be wrong, 

Cold and bleak is the moor 

When winter winds are strong. 

The snowy ground is a cold, cold perch 
And well I love the tree, 

When through the stubble fields I search, 
Where would my curlew be. 

The woods are more to my mind, 

No better home could be, 

He must be of the woodland kind 
Who will be mate to me.” 


60 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


THE OLD MAN OF THE HILL 

Up there by that spreading thorn 
Where starts the mountain nil, 

In that cottage he was born, 

The old man of the hill. 

His children to other homes had gone, 

His wife was sleeping where people sleep 
so still, 

In that cottage for years lived alone 
The old man of the hill. 

There lived he all his days 

Through summers warm and winters chill, 
And lived in noble righteous ways— 

The old man of the hill. 

And well he bore friendship’s part 
And that with right good will, 

For you know he had a faithful heart; 

The old man of the hill. 

For his notice children would practice each 
guileless art 

With all their youthful skill, 

They knew he had a loving heart; 

The old man of the hill. 

He wandered forth pondering on life’s last 
reckoning 

As the summer eve was still; 

And saw the angels beckoning— 

The old man of the hill. 

Gazing into the far unknown 
He felt his spirit thrill, 

As he beheld a starry crown 
For the old man of the hill. 

They found him there beside the stile 
That overlooks the gill, 

With calm face and saintly smile— 

The old man of the hill- 

And there unseen by human eyes 
He obeyed the Almighty’s will; 

So passed from earth to Paradise— 

The old man of the hill. 

61 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPEERDER 


MAN 

Knight, Baron or Earl. Those titles not mine, 
To them I do not aspire, 

Bound inferior brows coronets may twine, 

Such baubles I never desire. 

I would not be duke or prince 
These titles for me are too small; 

Such vanities I discarded long since 
For I am Lord of them all. 

Not bishop, cardinal or pope, 

These distinctions I never will crave, 

For higher and greater my hope 
This side and beyond of the grave. 

King, Kaiser, Emperor or Czar, 

To them I’d not fall; 

Not for me pomp of place or glory of war, 

For I am Lord of them all. 

I am no proud chief of a clan, 

I live not in castle or tower, 

I scorn despotic Sultan or Khan 
And laugh at their power. 

Though mighty in might and in majecty high, 
With vassals to obey at their call; 

Sovereign and serf before me they lie 
For I am Lord of them all. 

I earn my bread, oft busy am I, 

I work for I am no drone; 

I labor but there is none greater than I 
On any terrestial throne. 

Though huumble of birth 

I am chief in Destiny’s plan, 

And Lord of the Earth; 

My title is Man. 


62 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


A MORNING SCENE 

Wrapped in daisy spangled grass 
The dew-wet meadows lay, 

Gowans gleamed like shining brass 
To the eye of day. 

Each green and slender blade 
With a gem was bowed, 

Mists drifted slowly np the glade 
In shining silken cloud. 

As wisps of morning mist 
Melted in the air, 

Blushing daisies the sun had kissed, 
Opened sweet and fair. 

Purling waters shimmering flashed 
Among the gowan leaves, 

Then out in dancing ripples splashed 
And slid among the bunchy seeves. 

Joyous was the song of bird 
And the cushat softly cooing, 

Deeply my heart was stirred 
To Nature’s gentle wboing. 

Could you see a scene like this 
And see it as I saw it, 

It would be enough of bliss 
But to live and know it. 

Though each other we may never know, 
Yet shall we feel akin, 

And see the beauties of Earth aglow 
With light from the soul within. 


63 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


POESY 

Poesy first in heavenly spheres was nurst, 

God created it to perfect His Great Plan, 

He tried it on the angels first, 

Then passed it on to man. 

Among angels it was a living part 
Ere the human race began, 

Then it became the master art, 

The masterwork of man. 

With her an ever-living pleasure 

Eternally in your soul shall spring, 

Without her you will find your choicest treasure 
But a dull and sordid thing. 

If you know not the beauty of Poesy 
And the joy she sings, 

You know but the dull and soulless life 
Of coarse material things. 

And you shall dree the dreary death 
Of cold and sordid things; 

But breathe of her living breath 

Your soul exultant soars on her resplendent 
wings, 

Of Poesy was music boro— 

A fair and heavenly maid, 

As radiant as the glint of morn 
Beyond the night’s dim shade. 

She sang in poetry of sounds 
A sweet, angelic harmony, 

That spread to earth’s utmost bounds 
In ecstatic minstrelsy. 

This heavenly twain, messengers of Omniparient 
mind 

To the children of the sod. 

To link the souls of human kind 
To the all-pervading God. 


64 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


THE EARTH IS GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME 

I’ve heard of a realm of wondrous light 
Where infinite day excludes the night 
And joy must ever he. 

Can those celestial gates of pearl and gold 
Greater beauties yet unfold 
Than Earth can yield to me? 

The forms I love 
Which around me move 
Give joy enough to me, 

And the colors wove 
In the sky above 

Are beautiful enough to see. 

And the changing beauties of the year 
I hold them ever dear 

And they are fair to me. 

I’ve seen the bright and dark 
And trod the light and murk 

Yet a world of happiness the Earth has 
given to me. 

I’ve gathered gems of greatest worth 
And my pathway over the Earth 

Has given flowers and fruits to me, 

And this old Earth 
That gave me birth 

Is good enough for me. 

And while I dwell upon this sod 
I give my thanks to God 

Who has given me grace to see; 

If I find no heritage beyond the grave 
Then no more I’ll crave— 

This is enough for me. 


65 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPBERDER 


SUNSET 

Over the evening skies 
The sunset colors burn, 

In the beauty that never dies, 

In memory it is reborn. 

When the day expires 

And to the night we turn 
Still shall flash the wonted fires 
From memory’s storied urn, 

Though clouds to darkness tend, 

By shafts of light they are often rent asunder, 
And the clouds a greater glory lend 
To the sunbeams streaming under. 

Our disappointments and heartaches 
With their deep throbs of pain, 

Our trials and our mistakes— 

They have not been in vain. 

Nothing ever in vain has been, 

But planned with consumate skill, 

Even the flower that blooms unseen 
Its mission can fulfill. 

The wild flowers that scent the air, 

You may pluck them from the stem, 

Yet there is a message there, 

A purpose there is in them. 

And as we look across the years 
Our growing souls shall see 
That not alone of toil and tears, 

A mortal’s lot shall be. 

For sorrow some blame our early parents’ fall, 

That may have brought some grief, I grant it, 

But God made happiness enough for all, 

We can find it if wfe want it. 

The day ends in night 

But the day comes again, 

Thus the dark and light 
Form an endless chain. 

66 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


The dawn and sunsets glory 
All adown the years, 

Are handing on the story, 

There are smiles as well as tears. 

Sunrise and sunsets build 
A reminder of some 
Promise that is fulfilled, 

And a promise of something yet to come. 

Some say that God lives far away 
In a world that is beyond, 

And when the faithful pray, 

That he will respond. 

Some say the Divine Almighty Will 
Is enthroned above the sky, 

But I know that God lives nearer still 
We are kindred, He and I. 

And together we live on earth, 

We live everywhere, 

Wherever thought goes winging forth, 

W T e are living there. 

And we have built our Heaven on earth, 

And what a heaven is ours! 

Filled with jewels of fairest worth, 

Sunshine, dew-drops and flowers. 

And for use in time of need 
Within our heaven are stored 
Human sympathy and gentle deed— 

Love, and kindly word. 

Some may deem it odd 

That such thought should be, 

But I feel that I live in God, 

And that God lives in me. 


67 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


PLEASUKE IN SIMPLE THINGS 

Fortune has sometimes jobbed me 
And I know not why; 

But poverty has never robbed me 
Of pleasures that money can’t buy- 

Money I cannot hoard, 

Somehow I do not care, 

I do without what I can’t afford 
I am not a millionaire. 

For the rich I sometimes feel a pity 

With their pomp and pride and blare; 

I shun the crowded city 

With its noise, its gaud and glare. 

I find my pleasure in simple things, 

I find it ever} r where, 

In the floating cloud, in the bird that wings 
Its way through the air. 

There is joy for me in the sunbeam, 

There is joy for me in the sky, 

And joy for me in the moongleam 
On the river that hastens by. 

The dew on the cobwebs net 
Or raindrops prisoned there, 

No diamonds by mortal set 
Ever shine so fair. 

Bird, beast and plant in their gleeings 
Make the earth happy and fair; 

Think of the infinite beings 

Building and painting the air. 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


BY THE PLATTE RIVER 

The moon is shining over Casper 
As the river flows along, 

The mimic waves of jasper 
Join in the willows’ song 

The moon shines over Casper 
And the hills are looking on 
As in my arms I clasp her 
MJy own beloved one. 

The moon sheds her soft and silent glory 
And the hills about enfold, 

As I tell to her the story 
The story that is so old. 

Yes, I tell her the old, old story 
The story that is still so new, 

Though told through ages ancient and hoary 
Is still fresh as morning dew. 

We walk by waters softly moving 
By pebble and sandy bar, 

Though I tell of our loving 
I tell not who we are. 

The river keeps on flowing 
But will not tell the tale, 

The hills about us knowing 
Yet in silence will not fail. 

The moon that shines over Casper 
Her light will wax and wane, 

The lights of Casper 

Will gleam across the plain. 

And where the river is winding 
We will walk again, 

Ah! the joy of finding 

We are one instead of twain. 


69 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


I LOVE TO SEE THE LIGHTNING 

I love to see the lightning flash 
And to hear the thunder roll, 

For then I feel a mighty power 
Exultant in my soul. 

I love to hear the wild refrain 
Of winds roaring loud and deep, 

I love to be on the plain 

Where strong west winds sweep. 

I love to tread the unbroken turf, 

I love the rocks ragged and hoar, 

I love to hear the angry surf 
Come thundering on the shore. 

I love to wander in the woods 
When dead leaves swirling fly, 

And by streams when brown foamy floods 
Are madly rushing by. 

I love Nature in her boisterous mood, 

In her tumultuous glee, 

Of roaring wind and tumbling flood 
I love her by land and sea. 

But most I love to see the lightning flash, 
Trembling over the sky, 

And hear the loud din of thunder crash 
Reverberating by. 


LIFE 

I have herded on the mountain and on the plain; 

In bright sunshine and through snow and rain, 

The seasons would come and go—I did not care a dime; 
Though they were milestones along the road of Time. 

Often tired and footsore I have followed the restless band, 
Over salt sage flats and over ridgy land. 

Sometimes smeared with mlud, sometimes with dust and grime, 
Thought I, Tis a picture of the trail of Life over the range 
of time. 

Have all to tramp so unceasingly? No matter how tired or lame, 
For all the world, all the way, is it just the same? 

70 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


I think some find an easy path and slip along like scenes in 
pantomime, 

While others must breast the reefs of Life, along the range 
of time. 

Some find a flowery path and they tread gaily on, 

The cares that trouble the rest of mankind to them are 
unknown. 

Their lives are like a placid stream flowing through land of 
pleasant clime; 

They glide peacefully over the plains of Life, along the range 
of time. 

Many sick and weary, sad and worn must take the uphill trail 
Prom budding youth to withered age they battle with the 
gale. 

In heat of summer noonday sun or winter mornings chilly rime, 
They struggle over the hills of Life, along the range of time. 

Shrinking from the rugged path farther astray some wander yet, 
Deluded by pleasures that lure mankind and by snares beset. 

Having lost the path many sink in vice and crime 

While struggling through the swamps of Life, along the range 
of time. 

Some think their sorrows and hardships are more than they 
can bear, 

Faint-hearted, sore and weary, they yield to despair. 

No sweet-toned bells of the future peal for them a silvery chime, 
They fear to face the wildemes of Life, along the range 
of time. 

But some are stronger, braver, and more persevering prove 
And strive with all their hopes beyond and all their faith 
above; 

They fight the battle bravely and the victory is sublime, 

As they triumph over the trials of Life and reach the shore 
of time. 

Mfeny following far behind see how others the victory have won 
And follow the light that is shining bright in steps where 
they have gone- 

Embarked on the ocean are victors from every clime; 

We see their white sails afar like a guiding star on the 
ocean of time. 

Onward, onward to futurity their barques are borne 
To the dawning glory of the Everlasting Mom; 

Sailing on the Great Unknown the Intmeasurable Sublime, 

The shoreless sea of Eternity, beyond the Ocean of time. 

71 



MU SINGS OF A SIIEEPIIERD ER 


WAR 

There was war, and millions went to die— 

There was many a moan from those who were oppressed 
And many a sigh and tearful eye 
And many a troubled breast, 

And many a heart had to part 
From those it loved the best. 

Many a father was shattered and torn 
Ajid helpless children cried, 

Many a fatherless babe was born 
And many a mother died, 

All to feed a Kaiser’s greed 
And spread his boundaries wide. 

After every battle storm 
From off the gory sod 
Was borne many a crippled form— 

A broken image of God; 

All to sate a Kaiser’s hate 
Rivers of blood have flowed. 

There is many a sorrowing heart 
Whose joy in life is gone, 

Forced from its best beloved to part 
Who lies in grave unknown, 

All to dower the lust for power 
Of a bloody German throne. 

The fields were plowed with shot, 

There was many a ruined farm, 

There was many a tumbled cot 
And shriek of wild alarm 
In the track of battle wrack 
In the horrid days of harm. 


72 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


A HYPOCRITE 

You’d tliink he wasn’t of human birth, 

He seems of such pure and lofty mind, 
And that very thing, the Salt of the Earth— 
What Diogenes couldn’t find. 

Yet still must remain on earth 
Through the coming ages, 

Till a blind world discovers his worth 
And writes it in golden pages. 

Some are blind and his virtues can’t discern, 
Some are ignorant and unbelieving, 

But many to their sorrow learn 
He is artful in deceiving. 

He will pass you out a line of talk 
So soft and caressing, 

Until you almost balk— 

His honesty is so distressing. 

He’ll make you think he is a superman 
Or maybe something better, 

That he is doing all the good he can 
And all the world’s his debtor. 

Then you will think he is of angel brand 
And you look for his wings, 

Then discover he is an angel supergrand 
And has no need of such things. 

You will think so much modesty he has got 
That makes him hide his glim, 

And that a cruel and selfish lot 
Are crucifying him. 

Then he gives you the impression 
That he works hard at honest labor, 

And is free from all transgression 
But has a hell of a neighbor. 

He seems better than the Great Redeemer, 
Maybe ten or twelve degrees, 

But he is an artful schemer 
And can give hell a freeze. 

73 



MUSINGS OF A 8HEEPH[ERDER 


SOLDIERS OF THE BRITISH ARMY 

Where the rude hand of war 

Is the face of Nature scarring, 

Men have gathered from afar 
To join the nation’s warring. 

From Scottish bens and glens 
And far Canadian prairie, 

From Cambrian pens and Cambridge fens 
And hills of Tipperary, 

Standing among scenes blood 
Men from the banks of Mersey 
Shoulder to shoulder stood 

With men from Isle of Jersey. 

From Tasmanian groves, New Zealand runs 
And far Australian stations 
Came the dauntless sons 
Of many youthful nations. 

From Newfoundland’s foggy banks, 

From Southern lands that over the ocean smile, 
Men came to join the warring ranks— 

To battle for the mother isle. 

From shores where ocean currents race 
Through channels of Scillona, 

A thousand isles their homes embrace 
From Falklands to Iona. 

Men were there on whom Africa’s sun 
Had poured its blinding glory, 

Men from lands Where fogs roll dun 
And frost lies old and hoary. 

There was Goorkha and Sihk, 

All valiant, staunch and true, 

Grimy with the battle’s reek, 

A brave and warlike crew. 

From north, south, east and west, 

From lands so far asunder, 

Where sandy shore and rocky breast 
Brave the ocean’s thunder- 
74 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Their weariness they would beguile 
With many a song and story, 

To wean their thoughts awhile 
From death and martial glory. 

Some sang of Braes of Ballochmyle, 
Some sang of Tobermory, 

Some sang Annie Lisle 

And some sang Annie Laurie. 

Some sang Land o’ the Leal, 

In trenches red and gory, 

Some sang D’ye ken John Peel 
Some sang Chillingowallabadory. 

Some sang songs of Erin Isle, 

Songs of stream and glade, 
Thinking of the witching smile 
Of some sweet Irish maid. 

Some sang songs of love 

And some sang songs of daring, 
Some they prayed to God above 

And some indulged in swearing. 


THE ROSE AND THE LILY 

Sweet the sorrel grows 

Where thickets dim shadows throw, 

And sweet can the lily grow 
In the shadow of the rose. 

Beautiful the violet grows 

Beneath boughs bending low, 

And fair can the lily blow 
In the shadow of the rose. 

The rose and the lily, the lily and the rose, 
How sweet they are entwined 
Around heart and soul and mind, 

The rose and the lily, the lily and the rose. 

75 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPE\ERDER 


BUD MAC QUEEN 

Across the fields the granger tills 
Where the Indian’s lodge had been 
And over the rough and rifted hills 
Bode young Bud MacQueen. 

And by forest fringed heights 

Up the mountain trail he went, 

And succeeding days and nights 
On the journey spent. 

And down upon the open range 
He rode upon his quest, 

While emotions deep and strange 
Stirred his youthful breast. 

Mile after mile of arid plain 
Crept beneath his horse’s tread, 

While peaks of a distant mountain chain 
Beckon’d him ahead. 

Oft among the wild and arid land 
He made his lonely bed, 

Beneath him was the desert sand, 

The shining stars overhead. 

Again to climb a mountain’s breast 
On his purpose still intent, 

A stop awhile to feed and rest, 

Then up and onward went. 

Till around him lay desolate hills 
Deep in sodden snow, 

And cheerless gloom the valley fills 
Three thousand feet below, 

The earth was a cheerless sight 
Beneath the sullen sky, 

Merging into the gloom of night 
As the stormy day crept by. 

The mountain wind howled aloud 
Or sobbed its deep refrain, 

As he went down through drenching cloud 
To a valley soaked with rain. 

What was the magnet that lured him on— 
That was so strong to move, 

A power through ages known 
And people call it love. 

76 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Crouching under a dripping bush 
Till dark and storm be past, 

Beside him he hears torrents rush 
But daylight conies at last. 

The sun shone on mountain tops 
In splendor glorified, 

Birds songs burst from every copse 
Upon the mountain side. 

Then he down the valley rode, 

In his heart a song of joy, 

In his face the look of manhood showed— 

He had left his home a boy. 

Down the vale he urged his horse, 

Bask’d in warming beam, 

And crossed many a winding course 
With waters all a-teem. 

He sang “My love is like the summer breeze 
That wafts sweet scents to thee, 

My love is like the orchard trees 

That bear sweet fruits for thee.” 

“My love is like the living stream 
That flows brimming to the sea, 

My love is like an Elysian dream 
That brings sweet thoughts to thee ” 

A maiden heard his song 
And she began to smile, 

She watched as he rode along 
Singing all the while. 

She sang, “The winds from over the mountain tops 
The winds from over the plain, 

Bring to me thoughts and hopes 
Of what I long to see again. 

“The streams that down the valley flow 
Lead my thoughts to a valley far away, 

There, Oh, there I fain would go 
But my father he says ‘Nay’.” 

“My love, the way has been long 
I’ve come looking for a wife, 

Together now we will sing one song 
And sing that song through life. 

77 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Now you will mount and ride with me, 
Then we'll go on our way, 

And we shall wedded be, 

Ere the sun sets on this day.” 

Together down the valley they ride, 
Then over the hills away, 

And they were bridegroom and bride 
Ere the sun had set that day. 

Over the fields in golden flame 
Was spread the harvest sheen 
When to our valley came 

A bride and Bud MacQueen. 


IF I COULD LOVE AGAIN 

I have felt the power supreme 
That thralls the hearts' of men, 

Real as fact, illusive as a dream 
The greatest joy of human ken. 

Once my heart it wildly moved, 

I know its joy and pain, 

But I’ll never love as once I loved 
If I can love again. 

But for all of the wide world 

With those memories I would not part today, 

For still around my heart are furled 

Endearing thoughts of one who passed away. 

Through the grief and loss that I have known 
Joy of that love shines like a bright sun ray, 

Throughout the years that have flown 
Since she passed away. 

The passion my heart has wildly moved 
I have felt its joy and pain; 

I can never love as once I loved 
If I could love again. 

7S 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


CHURCH BELLS RINGING 

Among the pleasures earth can yield 
One great joy I have known, 

Is to ramble by wood and field 
In unfrequented ways alone. 

I wandered one sunny day by Wood and field and lane 
Where early flow r ers were springing; 

It was Sabbath day and from village fane 
Came sound of church bells ringing, 

Oh, dear to me, Oh, sweet to me, the sound of church bells 
ringing, 

But dearer far, Oh, sw r eeter still, the sound of wild birds singing. 

Thus I loved to spend the Sabbath day 
When freed from labor’s chain, 

No sermon my mind could sway 

And pastor’s voice might call to me in vain. 

I would seek the woodland shades 

To see the ivy and woodbine clinging, 

And the solitude of sequestered glades 

Thrilled with the music of wild birds singing. 

Oh, dear to me, Oh, sweet to me, came the sound of church 
bells ringing, 

But dearer far, sw T eeter still, the music of wild birds singing. 

And came the growing manhood years 
Fresh hopes and ambitions bringing, 

With ripening years fresh pleasures unfold, new joy appears, 
But my heart still to its wonted pleasure clinging. 

Oftentimes grew weary of social joys 

Then I would seek sylvan homes with Nature’s music ringing. 
Away from the crowd’s fretting noise 
To hear a song of Nature’s singing, 

Then dear to me, sweet to me, the sound of church bells ringing, 
But dearer far, sweeter still, the melody of wild birds singing. 

1 have crossed far extending plains 

The only roof the heavens’ blue dome. 

I sighed for woods and fields and lanes 
And familiar sounds of home. 

But on Sabbath day from no village fane 
Came no sound of church bells ringing 
And from a drear and silent plain 
No sound of wild birds singing. 

Oh, dear to me, sweet to me, memories of church bells ringing, 
But dearer far, sweeter still, memories of wild birds singing. 

79 



MU8INGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


I’ve roamed through valleys where foaming torrents race, 
And forest kings their giant arms are swinging, 

Across the precipice’s frowning face 

The cascades sprayey showers are flinging. 

And far away from the village fane 
The wild rock goat is springing, 

And one might listen for years in vain, 

For the sound of church bells ringing, 

Oh, dear to me, sweet to me, the sound of church bells ringing, 
But dearer far, sweeter still, the sound of wild birds singing 

I left the solitude of the wilderness 

The desolate plains and mountain lands,* 

I reached a place of toil and stress, 

Where man has bound the earth with iron bands, 

I wander forth, 1 hear a sound, my steps I stay. 

A soimd, and with it what thoughts and memories bringing! 
’Twas Sabbath day and from far away 
Came the sound of church bells ringing, 

Oh, dear to me, sweet to me, the sound of wild birds singing, 
But sweeter still, oh, dearer far, came the sound of church 
bells ringing! 


UNREST 

The spirit of great unrest! What power it has over me, 
When I am far inland I am longing for the sea, 

And after weary journey when at length I stand 
By the surging waters on the ocean strand 
Then I long for the mountains and gleaming drifts of snow 
And when on the mountain I sigh for the vales below; 

When I am in the forest I am longing for the open plain, 
And when in the midst of prairies I sigh for the woods again. 

Years I’ve spent in roving and still of roving just as fond, 
Wherever I be it seems to me there’s a fairer land beyond. 
Hiow perverse the human heart can be; 

How seldom are we satisfied with what we’ve longed to see; 
And yet what joy it is to obey the wanderer’s call, 

As earth reveals her scenes to me I dearly love them all, 

If disappointments come to me and make my heart despond, 
Then I look and see a fairer land beyond. 

80 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


DREAMING 

When young my fancies soared aloft, 

Oh! how swift those winged fancies flew; 

When a youth I was dreaming oft 
The dreams of brightest hue- 

I dreamt the fairest dream that is known to men, 
When the youthful heart is warm 

The sweetest dream of mortal ken 
That love has the power to charm. 

But the brightest visions fading fast 
And the future no hopes to give, 

’Tis only in memories of the past 
My heart and soul can live. 

On my years is the evening sunset's glow 
And years have behind me rolled, 

The night is coming I know 

Through the fading light of gold. 

I have been a dreamer still, 

I dream to forget worldly care, 

And I’ll go dreaming down life’s hill, 

No matter how I fare. 

And as the night it nears 

And nearer and nearer draws, 

I’ll spend my twilight years 
In dreaming of my rose. 


PLOP GOES THE FISH 

Weather and water fine, 

Just as heart could wish, 

Throw out the line— 

Plop, goes the fish. 

First play him gently, 

Then something goes ’squish’, 
As you work intently, 

Plop, goes the fish. 

With words that are unholy 
Send the line a-swish, 

Get him, yet, by golly, 

Plop, goes the fish. 

81 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


LOOKING BACKWARD 

When looking backward o’er the years 

We think we could miss so much of toil and tears 
And so much of care and pain— 

Were we to live them over again. 

/ 

But yet we do not know 

How things would happen so; 

One fact must not be forgot, 

That to each will come their lot, 

And we might meet all again, 

So much of sorrow and pain, 

And so much of toil and tears, 

When living through the tears— 

Were we to live them over again. 


DEPARTURE OF THE SOLDIERS 

I mingled with a waiting throng 
And marked the eager eye; 

Thought I, perhaps ere long 

Some pageant will be passing by. 

Pressing on where nought my view might bar 
I heard someone remark: 

“The soldiers are going to war, 

Today they do embark.” 

Then came a thrilling bugle call 
And stirring roll of drum; 

The cry was echoed from wall to wall 
They come, they come, they come. 

As gallantly they marched past 
Some cast lingering looks aside 

On some face, or place, a glance perhaps their last 
Some of those heroes may have died. 

As with bugle blast and roll of drum 
They bravely marched away, 

With each lingering note a message seemed to come 
The dying echoes seemed to say- 

’Tis for us the foe to match 

’Tis ours to fight, to fight, to march away 

’Tis for you to watch and watch and watch 
’Tis yours to watch and pray. 

82 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


PARTED 

They first met by Pettril side 
Where limpid waters run, 

When Nature spreads her mantle wide 
Beneath summer sun. 

And meeting oft by Pettril side 
Quickly their friendship grew, 

Together to beauty spots they hied 

While each heart to heart closer drew. 

They passed the tower at Catterlen, when she saw its riven side 
Her heart gave a sten, 

What if such a rift should divide 
Her young love dream just then. 

To her that rifted wall 
Ill omened seemed to be, 

A presage of what might befall 
Betwixt her and he- 

They spent that day as they had spent other days, 
Rambling by bught and barrow, 

Wandering by flowery ways 

Or resting among scented yarrow. 

They loitered by Hutton woods 

And sauntered by hall and grange, 

Till on them fell one of those silent moods 
Unaccountable and strange. 

But what was said or left unsaid 
That I do not know, 

Or what mistakes were made 
Or how it happened so. 

Whatever it was that did betide 
They both went far away 
And never met by Pettril side 
Since that parting day. 

There is many a sweet embowered dell 
And many a field of plain, 

But on hills overlooking Pettril vale 
They were never seen again. 

Every one has hopes and fears, 

There are hearts that have been fain, 

But oh, through all the after years 
They never met again. 


83 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPE{ERDER 


THE GIFT 

At my nativity a gift to me was given 

In pleasures of earth to taste the joys of heaven, 

And intensely was my heart imbued, 

This gift was my companion when a child, 

In riper years it stayed to comfort me on the lonely wild 
And cheered my solitude. 

When the Love God came my heart to prove 
Then I loved as few men ever love, 

I loved to intensest pain; 

Though years on years have passed 
Since on earth she breathed her last 
I long to see her again. 

I know she has made her flight 
To a realm of effulgent light, 

And I long with passionate longing to be there. 
The love that holds my heart still fast 
Over my soul a spell has cast 

That defies the bounds of earth and air. 

Sometimes I’ve left the place of mortal men 
And passed beyond the bounds of mortal ken 
Through ethereal regions vast, 

Past worlds on worlds in space unknown 
To see my love of years bygone 
I went hurrying fast. 

By groves and lakes and sinuous streams 
I passed beyond the land of dreams 

To a land that shone with brilliant dews, 

From which gorgeous resplendent beams 
Shot far and wide in glorious gleams, 

A million times more brilliant than rainbow hues. 

By roseate rock and glisking sand 
Each flashing like a silver band, 

Seven mighty rivers rolled. 

In places they burst on my bewildered sight 
Sparkling like diamonds of purest light 

And in places shone like burnished gold 

By dimpling eddy and limpid pool 
Swept balmy breezes soft and cool 

With the music of foamy waterfall. 

And bird and bower 
And bank and flower 
Their voices call. 


84 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


And looking beyond where those mighty rivers flowed 
Where brilliance effulgent glowed 
I saw the blest abode, 

And as I sped along those wondrous ways 
I saw a sunny plain with glorious fiowers ablaze 

And grass of lambent flame like living emeralds showed. 

Sometime when oblivion the mortal senses steep 
In some long night of dreamless sleep 
I’ll cross the flow r ery sod, 

To the land where voices call 
And to the great beyond of all 

I’ll reach the throne of God. 

For one is there for whom I care 

For her the powers of heaven I’d dare 

And she with heavenly love is blest; 

I saw her there, 

She is wondrous fair 

And has my soul possessed. 

From mortal things and mortal kind 
She absorbs my soul and mind 
As a mighty magnet draws, 

Endowed with Love’s magic powers 
Of all celestial flowers 

I know she is the rose. 


LIFE IS NOT ONE LONG, SWEET SONG 

Life is not always one long sweet song, 

Or melody played in tune, 

Not always can we wander sweet flower among 
And gather the roses of June. 

But there is sunshine now and again 
Between shadows fleeting by, 

And after the clouds and the rain 
We will see the sunny sky. 

This thought has come to me 
That it is better by far, 

Not to worry about things as they ought to be, 
But to reckon with things as they are. 


85 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPH[ERDER 


CASTLE IN THE AIR 

All things of beauty and every masterpiece of art 
I’ve stored within a castle stately and fair, 

All the world of its treasure to me has given a part 
To adorn my splendid castle, my castle in the air. 
Noble in their beauty each tower and turret rise, 

There are halls of grandeur and carven winding stair 
Ever bright and warm are the sunny skies 
Above my castle, my castle in the air. 

When storms around me brastle 
With lowering clouds of care, 

I seek refuge in my castle, 

My castle in the air. 

There are tired millions toiling 
Tired and toiling everywhere, 

Through long drear days of moiling 

Each can have a castle, a castle in the air. 

When with the problems of life you wrestle 
And material things that wear and tear, 

’Tis well to have a castle— 

A castle in the air. 

If troubles are pressing nigher 
And begin to crowd and stare, 

Keep on building higher 
Your castle in the air. 


THE SULKY COW 

I sang of sunlit meadows, 

I sang of pastures green, 

I sang of weaving shadows 
That lie the trees between. 

I sang to her of verdant hills, 

I sang of fields and flowers, 

I sang to her of purling rills, 

I sang of birds and bowers. 

86 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Of anything that I could think 
I surely sang of it, 

I gave her nice things to eat and drink 
But charmed her not a bit. 

Then I sang of salty waves 
That sweep across the sea, 

I sang of gem encrusted caves 
But not a bit cared she. 

And not a bit she heeds 

While I sing of this glorious land of ours. 
And of sublime heroic deeds 

And the Nation’s mighty powers. 

I sang of many an old-time story 

That has come far down the years, 

Of rhymes grim and hoary, 

Of tales laden with hopes and fears- 

But still.she sullen stood 
And didn’t care a damn, 

Determined in her sulky mood 
As tight as any clam. 

I sang to her songs of gladness 
I sang of loves and sighs 
And I sang songs of sadness 
Till tears filled, my eyes. 

Not plaintive songs of tender sentiment 
Or rollicking songs of glee, 

Bom of isle or continent 

Could move such a beast as she. 

Songs wont to sooth her wayward mood 
Now proved of no avail 
She sullen and unresponsive stood, 

Except when she kicked the milking pail. 

I 

To induce her some milk to yield, 

I surely knew not how, 

Never was her like in bam or field 
She was a sulky cow. 

87 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPIIERD ER 


DECEIVED 

On liim young Netta’s love had beamed 
He seemed so noble and so strong 
But young Nett a never dreamed 
His heart was sadly wrong. 

Nor would she believe or ever think 
That sometime he might leave her 
That her high hopes in shame would sink 
And he prove a base deceiver. 

But a high and noble part 
Not long could he play it 
The selfishness in his heart 
Was bound to betray it. 

But he indulged in other joys 
Wanton and unclean 
He left a wreck of broken toys 
Whose idol he had been. 

There was no honor in his heart 
True love he did not know it 
Exulting in his deceitful part 

And shameless enough to show it. 

At last he went away 

To seek fresh fields for his endeavor, 

What could entice him to stay, 

Would he return? No, never. 

Netta tearfully begged him of her to think 
But cruel was the stab, 

“Did she imagine he would link 
Himself to a drab.” 

She longed to go far away 

Where no libertine could trusting heart deceive 
So she went as children play 
Into the land of make-believe. 

She thought her heart like cold dead clay 
Could no other love receive, 

So she played as children play 
In the land of make-believe. 

88 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


There she found a lover who was always true 
And gs tender as lover could be 
As they fonder and fonder grew 
A charming prince was he. 

She blotted out each by-gone year 
Of that time of wasted love, 

To the past she gave no thought or tear 
This poor mateless dove. 

Nor did she ever cease or tire 

Those wflld love fancies to weave, 

She found her heart’s desire 
Tn the land of make-believe. 

Sometimes she would tell of a lover so true 
Of her lover who was so kind 
But the glowing picture she drew 

Was the creation of an unbalanced mind- 


KAISING THE SCHOOLHOUSE FLAG 

Here where the schoolhouse stands 
And where the children come 

We raise the flag in honor patriot hands 
That builded freedom’s home. 

Here to the mast we bend her 

In sight of the hills where it grew, 

Flag of Freedom let freemen defend her, 

And be her children true. 

May roots of freedom strike deep in the earth 
And grow deeper and deeper forever. 

In this land where the Nation had birth, 

That nought from her freedom may sever. 

Up, high up, we will send her, 

No flag more honored ever flew. 

Let nought dim the splendor 

Of the glorious stars in the blue. 


89 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPBJERDER 


KEEP AT IT JUST THE SAME 

If the people do not mind you 
Or recognize your worth, 

Fling such annoyances behind you, 

Keep on laboring for the children of the earth. 

If people don’t regard you 

In the glowing light of fame; 

If the world don’t reward you 
Keei) onward just the same. 

The world’s cold neglect—just bear it, 

It is not a mark of blame, 

The world’s yoke—just wear it; 

Keep on working just the same 

Time may be unending— 

We know not whence it came, 

The past some message to the future sending 
May resurrect your name. 

After enduring scoffs and laughter 
And you’ve done your little bit, 

Centuries, ages, eons after 

Th world may be blessing you for it. 

Seek not fame, wealth or power 

When at your task you steadfastly have stood, 

These may perish in an hour— 

Crown yourself with the knowledge that you have 

done some good. 


THE GOD AND I 

Here were spread western plains 
And mountains rise to* meet the sky; 

The creed that here obtains 
Is the God and I. 

Here we meet face to face, 

We meet eye to eye; 

Nor fear to meet in any place 
Nor how, or when or why. 

Here man and woman stand side by side, 
Both of the sovereign kind; 

Her equality is not denied 
As in dark states you find. 

90 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


The bright light of our western land 
Illumines the soul of man, 

Here man and woman hand in hand 
Shall work out Hod’s Great Plan. 

If danger should against us band 
Each heart undaunted will reply, 

Here we stand in our chosen land 
And we are God and I. 

When all the world shall live this part 

There shall be between all mankind a tie; 

When the w r atchword of every heart 
Is the God and I. 


IKELAND 

Let the harp of Erin sing again, 

Let her shamrock still be green; 

That little island of the main, 

IVfay yet be an ocean queen. 

Still her heart for freedom calls; 

Centuries of woe her spirit could not destroy; 

Where now the salt tear falls 
Let there be smiles of joy. 

Let harp of Erin sing again, 

And her shamrock still be green, 

And bring joy to every bould gossoon 
And every sweet colleen. 

Throughout the long black years 
The centuries have rolled, 

She has felt the galling spears 
Of Norman knights of old. 

How far behind will reason lag? 

Such things would not have been 

Had we but placed upon our flag 
A little strip of green. 

To remind us there are other hearts 
That love freedom well 

We should renounce the tyrant parts 
That coerce and compel. 


91 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPH\ERDER 


FKOM THE FAE AWAY 

Things that are scattered hither and yon— 

Things that are lost and gone, 

Things that escape now and then— 

Things that pass beyond our ken. 

From the upper and from the nether 

They’ll gather together, they’ll gather together 
And all come back someday, 

From the far off Faraway. 

Every little thing we’ve known— 

Every little kindness shown— 

Every little word that’s spoken 
Every vow or promise broken. 

Every wrong that is done, 

Memories that we’d rather shun, 

Every thought that’s flown, 

All that’s passed to the Unknown. 

Are wandering in the wilds of space somewhither 

And they’ll gather together, they’ll gather together, 
And will all come back some day 
From the far-off Faraway. 

Everything on the stream of Eternity cast, 

Everything that was in the past, 

Is existent yet somewhere. 

Of words and deeds we should have care 
Of them we’ll never be free, 

Nothing can ever cease to be, 

From the upper and from the nether 

They’ll gather together, they’ll gather together 
And will all come back some day. 

From the far-off Faraway. 

Be it cross or be it crown 
Everyone will have their own, 

What is yours will be yours and mine will ever be mine 
Like it or not we have no power to decline. 

We must receive what Fate is going to pay, 

We cannot evade that reckoning day, 

Everything will be measured back, 

Not a jot or tittle will lack, 

When from the upper and from the nether 

They’ll gather together, they’ll gather together 
And all come back someday 
From the far-off Faraway. 

92 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


WHO DID IT? 

Wlio has done this bloody deed 
And spread destruction far? 

Who has made the nations bleed 
And plunged the world in war? 

Who those hostile armies sent 

To mark lands with blood and flame? 

Where the people lived in peace and sweet content 
Ere the vandal Teuton came. 

What beast such wrong would dare 
To win him martial glory? 

What fool would such laurels wear 
So shame bestained and gory? 

Over the trodden Belgian farms 
And blood-soaked fields of France 

Is spread war’s alarms 

Where his trampling chargers prance. 

Animals that prowl and birds that prey 
Seek the ghoulish feast. 

Prepared for them by martial array 
Of the minions of a crowned beast. 

We see his loathsome shadow loom 
Where once Peace smiled on lands 

Now comes a time of dismal gloom 
And blood at his comjnands. 

The blood-thirsty Hun at his behest 
Went forth to slay the Serb; 

Who shall humble his haughty crest? 

Who his unholy desires shall curb? 

He has set on the unbridled Turk, 

A race of bloody hands, 

To help him in his dirty work 
To ravage Christian lands. 

A wretch so debased and vile 

As to employ assassin hand to make excuse for war, 

May his fame be buried in his guile 

And his name writ where those of murderers are. 


93 




MUSINGS OF A SHEEPMERDER 


IN SILENCE 

Ah! yes, indeed, the love was deep 
Between the man and maid, 

When in the place of last long sleep 
His fair love was laid. 

In his eyes were no tears, 

He made not moan or sigh, 

Though on his future years 
He had seen the sunlight die. 

Yes, he stood by with tearless eye, 

And saw her laid in her lowly bed, 

When he had seen her die 
His hope was also dead- 

Deeply as struck the dart 

He showed not how much he might care, 
But deep within his heart 
He buried the story there. 

After long, ^sunless years, 

Came a gleam of light again, 

The star of hope appears, 

Shining through the darkness of his pain. 

But the wheel of fortune is its ceaseless roll 
Brought untoward things, 

Events beyond man’s control; 

Again he felt disappointment’s stings. 

Yet still the bitter smart 
He will in silence bear, 

And deep in his heart 
He hid the story there. 

As time grew longer, 

And heavier in its flight 
Through those years the heart hunger 
Lived with him day and night. 

He bore his grief without plaint or tears, 
And as the scars grew dim, 

The memories of those bygone years 
Became a joy to him. 

94 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


He did not win the joy he sought 
That hope was past recall, 

But he found solace in the thought 
That he had loved at all. 

Time soothed each pang 
That had been so rude, 

Again in his soul he sang 
He sang in solitude. 


BILLY MOATT 

A cheerful man was Billy Moatt, 

Now he is gone to rest; 

He had a button on his coat 
And another on his vest. 

Few indeed were Billy’s wants, 

Of little he was possest; 

He had two buttons oh his pants, 

He had lost the rest. 

He was industrious in his vocation, 

Of ease he was still in quest, 

Yet deserving of highest approbation 
His honesty would bear the test. 

His shoes w^ere such as nature gave 
And fitted very neat, 

He was economical and tried save 
By wearing nothing on his feet. 

Hood luck of others he envied not, 

And Was a loyal friend, 

He rejoiced in the fulness of his neighbor’s pot, 

To congratulate him oft thither he would trend. 

He stayed on earth till he was fifty-seven 
To stay longer he did his best, 

Then he quit and went to heaven 
And is God Almighty’s guest. 


95 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEP HERDER 


LITTLE FURRY FOLKS 

Leave the smoky wastes of brick and stone 
To take some pleasant woodland walks, 

And spend an hour alone 

With the little furry folks. 

When passing beneath a fir 
Or the beeches and the oaks, 

You may see the branches stir, 

There is a squirrel, one of the little furry folks. 

Then mossy bank and quiet way 
Your unwonted feet must coax 
To some open glade where rabbits run and play 
Happy furry folks! 

Then where thick the brackens lay 
In yellow tangled shocks 
You will see slyly slip away 
A shy brown-eyed fox. 

And still going quietly along 

You hear some notes sweet and mellow 
And then a wild, exultant song 

From some little feathered fellow- 

Oft when leaves are tinged with brown and yellows, 
I’ve enjoyed some pleasant talks 
With the little furry fellows 
And little feathered folks. 

When tossed on life’s uneasy billows 

And you find all pleasures are a hoax, 

Get acquainted with the little furry fellows 
And the little feathered folks. 

When weary of the envious and the jealous 
And the car of fortune balks, 

Seek solace Avith the little feathered fellows 
And the little furry folks. 


96 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


A WORLD THAT IS ALL MY OWN 

I have a world to live in, 

A Avorld that is all my own, 

Where Mammon has nought to give in 
And fortune cannot frown; 

The truths that I believe in 
Are jewels in‘my crown, 

The joys that I receive in 
Nothing ever can drown. 

Nothing there to grieve in 
For sorrow is unknown, 

No robber there to reive in, 

The world that’s all my own. 

Nought there to deceive in, 

There, only truth is known, 

All is true that I believe in— 

The world that’s all my own. 


THE LONELY GRAVE 

Where winds sing their sad refrain 
And prairie grasses wave, 

Where night winds sigh in mournful strain 
I found a lonely grave. 

By it lay one unmarked stone 
” Revealing not word or name, 

Which still remains unknown 

And whence the wanderer came. 

Was he by Indian slain 

While comrade stood by his side, 

Who buried him on the lonely plain 
Near to where he died? 

"When the angel calls the last roll 

And sea and land give up their dead 
Then he wall answer to the call 
And rise from his lonely bed. 


97 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPBERDER 


THE LAND WHERE THE GENTIAN GROWS 

It is the brightness of the sunshine 
That warms this land of ours 
And gives sweetness to her pine 
And beauty to her flowers; 

W T hen first outspread her plains 
And first her hills uprose 
To make the fairest of all domains 
The land where the Gentian grows. 

Her flowers of exquisite hue 
Sweeten the winds that blow, 

Skies of sublimest blue 

Are reflected in waters below, 

For words it is in vain to search 
To describe in rhyme or prose 
The color of the skies that arch 

The land where the Gentian grows- 

I catch on every passing breeze 

The scents of her vales and plains 
Even the sobbing of distant seas 
Her windborne voice contains, 

Though sometimes I’m led afar amain 
By the lure the wanderer knows, 

Yet my thoughts still turn again 

To the land where the Gentian grows. 

Sometimes from places that are far away 
In fancy I glimpse her snowy peaks, 

Come back, come back, they seen to say, 

It is Wyoming’s soul that speaks, 

I see her alfalfa fields, purple and green 
And corn in tasseled rows, 

Streams glide behind cottonwood and willow screen 
In the land where our blue Gentian grows. 

I see homes along the creek 

I see them dotted over the plain 
They nestle beneath each mountain peak 
Within their wide domain, 

And Nature with generous hand 
A lavish bounty throws 
Kindly smiling on the land 

Where our blue Gentian grows. 

98 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Spirits of Wyoming hill and dell, 

I think I hear them calling me 
Come back, their voices in chorus swell 
Come back, come back to me, 

And the thought a pleasure brings, 

And still a magnet draws 
And holds me by the heartstrings 
To the land where the Gentian grows. 


TO BE HUMAN 

The good of every day 

God give us grace to see it, 

If we meet temptation by the way 
Give us strength to flee it. 

Help to others by the way 

God grant that we may be it 
Suffering that sin must pay 
May we never dree it. 

What is harmful to our weal 
May we never crave it, 

What danger the future may reveal 
May we have courage to brave it. 

If we see wrong in a fellow being 
May we condemn it kindly, 

And be careful in our seeing 
Nor ever judge them blindly- 

Very few are better than they seem to be 
And very few are worse 
We can’t always judge from what we see 
But we do, of course. 

Yes, we do it every day 

And though we oft’ find ourselves mistaken 
Yet, it is safe to say 

Our confidence in our selves is seldom shaken. 

I think our race will better get 

As true knowledge our minds illumine, 

We are not on earth to be angels yet 
But just to be human. 

99 




MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE HILLS OF GEO-YON (GROVENTRES) 

Alas! for the heart that sorrow fills 
And joy of life is flown, 

Enduring of human ills 
And yet keep living on. 

He had suffered the grief that kills; 

He knew that hope was gone, 

Ere they took him to the woody hills— 

The hills of green Grovon. 

Through the pleasant summer days 
The sun brightly shone, 

The sod was one flowery maze 
On hills of green Grovon. 

At the coming of winter chills 

They made a grave and marked it with a stone, 

And left him asleep among the piney hills— 

The hills of wild Grovon. 

The winds roar through canyon deeps, 

They sob and sigh and moan, 

And buffet the rocky steeps 
Then die away in eery drone. 

Seasons go and come again, 

He still is sleeping on, 

A broken heart was eased from pain 
Among hills of wild Grovon. 

Alike to him in his wakeless sleep 
Is the twilight or the dawn; 

The sun and stars their watch will keep 
Over that grave in the wild Grovon. 

By the Hudson in grief too great for tears 
A lady mourns alone; 

Ever in fancy the sighing of wind she hears 
Over the wild Grovon. 


100 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


A BOY 

He was just a little western boy, 

He stood beside a cabin door, 

And much time he would employ 

Looking over the plain stretching far before. 

Boys! how lonesome they sometimes are, 

What thoughts come to them then, 

This boy’s home stood afar 

From the beaten road of men. 

Behind him hills arose with rocky shelf, 

On one side the desert lay, 

As he stood communing with himself 
You might have heard him say. 

“I see the dust rise and puff 

And dance with the whirlwinds, 

I see where the land leaves off 
And where the sky begins. 

I see the hills rise up around, 

I see where the skies they fall, 

Between there is lots of ground, 

I thought that it was all. 

But I’m told there is land beyond 
And there are seven seas, 

Each bigger than the pond 
Up by the cottonwood trees. 

They say the sky around the earth is furled 
And all the universe is one great plan, 

But I’m goin’ to ride to the edge of the world, 
Sometime when I’m a man. 

I’ve seen cowpunchers ride 

Away over the greasewood flats, 

With jingling spurs and chaps and pride, 

And wide-brimmed Stetson hats. 

And out in the desert that is so dry, 

So dusty and so white, 

They tell me that horn toads fry 
Out in the blinding light. 

But I am just a kid 

And never been anywhere, 

Where there’s something to do and dare.” 

But sometime I’m goin’ where things are did, 

101 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


MY GOOD OLD HORSE AND I 

We jog along together boys 
My good old horse and I, 

And we face the weather boys 
Be it wet or dry. 

We jog along together boys 
And watch the land creep by, 

We have no use for tether boys 
My good old horse and I. 

When Night that dame of dusky feather boys 
Lets her mantle over us lie, 

We just camp together boys, 

My good old horse and I. 


HEART TO HEART AND SOUL TO SOUL 

Heart shall respond to heart 

When thoughts are free from guile 
And quick the thrill of friendship start 
To meet the kindly smile. 

Hearts will to nobler deeds aspire 
As nobler thoughts are born, 

Tis the good that men admire, 

‘Tis the ill they scorn. 

The time shall be when soul to soul 
In unfettered thought shall speak, 
When secrecy shall lift the cowl 
Revealing what we seek. 

The time shall be when heart to heart 
Shall truest answer give 
The guileful art shall have no part 
When we know how to live. 


102 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


SONG OF VICTORY 

Sing when the dusk begins to lighten 
Sing as the dawn appears 
Sing as the sky begins to brighten 
Sing as the morning clears. 

Sing with the sun ascending 
His pathway up the sky 
Sing in thankfulness unending 
The warclouds have rolled by. 

Shout with the sun high on the throne of day 
Proclaim it everywhere 
Warclouds have rolled away 

They have finished over there. 

Shout when evening nears 

Shout when the dark has come 
Shout, shout the rousing cheers 
They are coming home. 

Let our cheers booming thunder 
Make night a tinle of joy 
They have finished over yonder 
Welcome home each darling boy. 

Those who are enshrined 
Within the Nation’s breast 
Be laurel wreathes entwined 
Above their place of rest. 

They toiled for our deliverance 
They who are among the blest, 

Speak of them with reverance 
They surely did their best. 

They the true and daring 

Who answered the Nation’s call 
The generous and unsparing 
They freely gave their all. 


103 



MU8ING8 OF A 8HEEPHERDER 


THE DYING LAMB 

It lias found its mother now 
The poor orphan child 
Carry it and lay it low 

Where the grass grows wild- 

It answered to the mother call 
The call of the mother heart, 

See the grim reaper’s shadow fall 
Over the mortal part. 

Not for it will daisies bloom 
Here on earthly sod, 

The good Shepherd has found it room 
In pastures nearer God. 

FAITH 

Days there are without sunshine 
When clouds are dreary and grey 
That it seems impossible any silver could line 
Such dark and dismal array. 

The sun may be shining beyond 

Through dark and oppressive the day 
But to such preaching what heart can respond 
When the soul is to heavy to pray. 

Can faith fling her banner out on the blast 
When no gleam of sunshine is seen 
When the sky with gloom is quite overcast 

And Despair sits where Hope erstwhile had been. 

Can Faith make her light brightly burn 
When Reason says it is vain, 

When Hope lias fled and will never return 
Can Faith her position maintain. 

Can Faith hold the fort 

When Hope her ally is gone 
And demons of darkness around her make sport 
Can Faith fight her battle alone. 

Faith will remain steadfast at the call of the brave 
And persistently hold to her throne 
Defiant of Reason, of Death and the Grave 
Though all of her allies lie prone. 

104 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


POETRY 

It goes with all that is holy, 

All that is great in God or man, 

It binds the high and lowly 
Together in God’s great plan. 

Born of the heart’s great Emotion, 

Of the soul’s great Desire, 

’Tis in the heaving of the ocean 
And leaping flames of fire. 

The winds in their blowing 

Sing in poetry through all time, 

Ever to the knowing 

Nature sings in rhyme. 

And it shall be eternal 

As long as God shall last, 

Above all things supernal 

Linking present, future and the past. 


LUCK AND THE FOOL 

This observation I have made 
And learned in Life’s school, 

On wisdom’s side in science arrayed 
And Luck stands to aid the fool. 

This is Nature’s counterbalancing plan 
To even things up in a way, 

So envy not the other man, 

It will be your turn some day. 

Though you may be poor and forlorn 
And the years are getting late, 

You would never have been born 
If some compensation did not a waft 

The enjoyment of material things 
Is for things of material clay; 

The part that rises on spiritual wings 
Is finer still than they- 


105 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


There is more in God’s great plan 
Than mortal kind can say, 

We cannot far into the future scan 
As we live from day to day. 

And when you think your fighting’s done 
And begin to count the cost, 

Remember greatest victories are won 
After hope is lost. 

No doubt we feel it hard 

When to us victory is not given, 

Yet somewhere we may find a greater reward 
Than that for which we have striven. 

In losing we may feel dismayed 

But remember it is a general rule, 

That on Wisdom’s side is science arrayed 
And Luck stands to aid the fool. 

And still we must live and learn 
In Wisdom to be strong, 

And from experience earn 

The knowledge where we belong. 

If we don’t measure up to Wisdom’s test 
Of course the world will say 
We must be classed among the rest 
That are in the opposite way. 

Fate, the unfeeling dame, 

She knows no middle kind, 

She bestows her praise or blame 
With undiscerning mind. 

If not among the wise, there’s no reason to be 
afraid, 

For of course you understand 
That luck the fool will aid 

And Providence guard him with protecting hand. 

There is some folly in the wise; 

There is some wisdom in the fool, 

But who can any plan devise 
By which to apply the rule? 

There is not much difference between the twain, 
Each is brother to brother man, 

I think the truth is plain 

Both are part of one Great Plan. 


106 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


THE ROVER 

Adown the slope he will follow his hope 
And on will the wanderer go 
Till he feels the lave of the salt sea wave 
In the breath of the winds that blow. 

But he will turn again away from the main 
And will cross the hills of snow 
Over river and ravine and the land between 
Will the reckless rover go. 

Till again he will stand on wave washed sand 
Short time he will linger there, 

Not his the roil of sons of the soil 
But rather of wild corsair. 

Perhaps to sights unseen where man has not been 
He hurries away from here, 

Not his the moil of the sons of toil 
But the verve of the pioneer. 

As free from care as the lightsome air 
That drifts with the changeful breeze, 

Away he has gone to seek the unknown 
As the God of Unrest decrees. 

He beguiles his way with lilt and lay 
The rattle of the rolling stone 
The evergreen glades of the high Cascades 
Have lured him on. 

Before him the Sierras may rise to his glad surprise 
But the rover will not stay, 

The land that lies before his eyes 
But tempts him on the way. 


BEAUTY AND HARMONY 

The colors of the morning skies— 

The sunset’s glowing splendor, 

And paths where the sunlight lies 
In lances long and slender. 

The birds that carol on the bough 
Making melody sweet and tender, 

The streams that flow and winds that blow 
A wealth of music render. 

107 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


JUST ONE OF THE COMMON KIND 

Of either wealth or fame 
Never was I possest, 

Nor ever felt bit of shame 
That I was poorly drest- 

I have worn many a patch 
But of that I do not brag, 
Whenever I shed my thatch 
It surely is a rag. 

Wealth is but a handy-cap 
Wear it if you may 
To have it if you should hap 
You’ve surely got to pay. 

Fame is but an empty sound 
For fickle fate a jest, 

Oft’ ’tis but a cloak to wrap around 
A soul that is poorly drest. 

Power is something vain 
Oft’ by fools ’tis sought, 
Something knaves seek to obtain 
Sometimes by dishonor bought. 

As I am not born to sway 
I do not care for it, 

To get it I’d not go out of my way 
No not a little bit. 

For you see I’m not built that way 
I’m just of a com!mon kind, 
Being made just of common clay 
Of course I do not mind. 


108 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


ROBERTA 

There was one as fair and sweet 

As the flower that ope’s its eye to the day, 

And we loved the patter of her little feet 
But alas! she went away. 

She came and stayed awhile 
And all our love she gained, 

Then departing with a smile 

While her sool was still unstained. 

She has gone where angels dwell, 

She was pure as they, 

But, ah! What words our sorrow can tell 
When she passed away. 

Oft when the mystic waves of dreamland sweet 
Come stealing o’er my mind, 

I hear the patter of little feet 
Come following up behind. 

I step aside to wait for them 
But alas! They never come; 

And I catch but a fleeting glimpse 
Of angel speeding home. 

Then down all my hopes are hurled 

And the bright visions vanish into air. 

And I wake to a cold grey world 
With a weary load of care. 


THE OAK AND VINE 

Let thy love be growing, let it flourish free, 
Let its tendrils around me twine 
And I will be thy oak tree 

And thou my sweet woodbine. 

We’ll grow together in fond embrace 
And closer we'll entwine, 

Each tender, loving grace 
Shall be thine and mine. 

Through the nights of darkness, 

Through the days that shine, 

And through the times of mlirkness 
We’ll be the oak and vine 
109 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


I’LL PADDLE MY 0W1N CANOE 

I may have been rather wild since I was a child 
And rambled a bit, ’tis true, 

But all the while from isle to isle 
I’ve paddled my own canoe. 

I don’t intend my ways to mend, 

There’s nothing that I rue, 

An hour I’ll spend with foe or friend 
If he paddle his own canoe. 

So long as I may I’ll live this way 
And a right good way ’tis, too, 

Fortune can have her say from day to day 
And I’ll paddle my own canoe. 

And everywhere I’ll do my share 
And expect the same of you, 

My troubles I bear and defy despair 
And paddle my own canoe. 

Perhaps when tempest torn on Life’s ocean borne 
I may find it hard to do, 

When old and forlorn and weak and worn 
I may drop the paddle, ’tis true. 

And drift away into the misty grey 
But I’ll drift in my own canoe, 

Until that day I’ll fight my way 
And paddle my own canoe- 


THE WAY TO PEACE 

In the broadway of the downward 
There troubles never cease, 

Take the upward and onward 
If you seek the way to Peace. 

But first there must be the clash of saber 
There must be the scabbard’s rattle, 
There must be the sweat of labor 
In the din of Life’s long battle 

Stumbling through ways of morals 

Resisting the lure of sunny paths of ease 
You must first win your laurels 
To win your way to Peace. 


110 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


THE HILLS AROUND THERMOPOLIS 

Behold those hills that rise with cliff and scar, 
Red as though stained wtih gore, 

Memorials of the time when elements were at war 
And battled in days of yore. 

When ocean that had long held reign 
Was bidden to depart, 

And followed by his surging train 
He left with heaving heart. 

Then with what throes untold 
The earth was rack’d and torn, 

Till from the ruins of the old 
A new land was bom. 

Where the Indian and buffalo trod 
And held undisputed sway, 

Now comes the thundering behemoth of the road 
Along the iron way. 

And ye who see the dawn of morn 
Or the yet brighter day, 

When man shall the vales adorn 
With cities of proud array. 

Then a mighty city shall arise 
And her wealth unfold, 

And spread beneath the azure skies 
Her flashing sheen of gold. 

And thou, Thermopolis, ’mid a thousand hills 
That hold the treasures of the West, 

And springs to cure human ills— 

Be thou the first and best. 

When power and wealth thou controls 
Forget not those who led the van, 

Through these vales where rolls 
The onward march of Man. 


Ill 



MUSINGS OF A &HEEPHERDER 


DRIFTING TO THE LEE 

If where Life’s breakers chide 
You see a man rowing against wind and tide 
And drifting to the lee; 

Extend to him an oar 
Save him from rocks ashore 
When drifting to the lee. 

If you ever see a man 
Who is doing all he can 

To save himself from drifting to the lee, 
Stretch forth to him a hand 
Help him to make a stand 
When drifting to the lee 

When you find a man who is down 
Beneath the world’s black frown 
And drifting to the lee, 

Take him by the hand, 

Help him from the treacherous sand 

Till he makes headway on Life’s sea. 


MOONLIGHT AMONG THE TREES 

Countless flowers scenting 
The balmy summer breeze, 

Myriad dewdrops glinting 

In the moonlight among the trees; 
Glossy leaves a shimmering, 
Whispering to the breeze, 

Flowing water glancing, glimmering 
In the moonlight ’mong the trees. 

Winter shadows darkling— 

Winter winds afreeze; 

Icy gems a sparkling 

In the moonlight ’mong the trees. 
Full orbed moon a shining 
Bright on wintry scene, 

Tree shadows twining 

Over the snow crust’s icy sheen. 


112 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


THE DESERT 

Have you heard the songs the desert sings 
To its children when they are lone? 

Have you seen the weird wild shapes of phantom-like thing? 
That barely appear and are gone? 

Have you been where the thirst demon rages 
With its attendants of madness and pain, 

Till the ghosts of long dead ages 
Come peopling the desert again? 

And they dance around you, mocking and jeering, 

Laughing in devilish glee. 

Grinning, jibing and leering, 

Clinging closer as faster you flee. 

Phantom shapes around you careering 
Like Satanic imps on a spree, 

And fantastic forms uprearing 
Like castle, fountain and tree. 

Have you seen the desert’s relentless sun 
Light up his shimmering blaze, 

Or demons in their demoniac fun 

Dance round you in bewildering maze? 

Have you seen the ghosts of the dead come trooping 
Across the waterless waste, 

While your body and soul was drooping 
And about you wild hellions raced? 

Have you seen the colors that to the desert is given 
In beauty all colors surpassing, 

Colors painted of hell and of heaven, 

With beauty beyond all classing? 

Thus the children of the desert are bom 
Amid thirst and intolerable pain, 

They will laugh all hardship and danger to scorn 
And return to the desert again 

Though Eden was open before them 
And filled with heavenly joys, 

The lure of the desert is o’er them, 

Irresistable the force it employes. 

Be they where the thunder of waters falling 
Over cataracts tumbling amain, 

They hear the voice of the desert calling 
And long for the desert again. 

113 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


might 

Might is right, those people used to say 
Who had the power to sway, 

It was the motto of the olden time, it is the same today, 
Still there is the hand yet relentless in its hold, 

Still there is the hand yet by which we are bought and sold, 
Still there is the hand yet grasping for the gold 
As in the creedy days, the dreedy days, 

The greedy days of old. 

Still we feel the might yet, 

W T e feel it day and night yet, 

Still we have got to fight yet, 

And must be just as bold 
As in the cluddy days, the gluddy days, 

The bloody days of old. 

Still we feel the power yet, 

W 7 e feel it every hour yet, 

Still it is our dower yet. 

It has us in its hold, 

As in the stave days, the glaive days. 

The slave days of old. 

Still in our hearts the broil yet, 

Still in our blood the roil yet, 

Still in our souls the droil yet, 

We are cast in the same mold, 

As in the dready days, the ready deays. 

The heady days of old. 

Still we bear the toil yet, 

Still we bear the moil yet, 

Still we feel the foil yet, 

Of thralls that us enfold, 

As in the deedy days, the meedy days. 

The needy days of old. 

Still we have the fear yet, 

The life may be drear yet, 

That the time is coming near yet 
When we’ll be in the cold— 

As in the care days, the sair days, 

The bare days of old. 


114 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Still there is the gulf yet, 

Still there is the spulf yet, 

Still there is the wolf yet 
Sneaking to the fold— 

As in the daunty days, the gaunty days, 
The wanty days of old. 

Still there is the draft yet, 

Still there is the craft yet, 

Still there is the graft yet 
If the truth be told, 

As in the cheevy days, the thievy days, 
The reavey days of old. 

It was the sword then 

The power so much adored then, 

Wielded by the Lord then 
For the strong and bold. 

We have got the gun now 
And think it lots of fun now 
To make our neighbors run now, 

Or plug them with a plunk. 

We can pitch to them a shell now, 

We can make them yell now, 

We can give them hell now r , 

And heave them quite a chunk. 

If they get too gay now 

We’ll surely make them pay now, 

Or blow them quite away now, 

Or they will think that we are drunk. 

In spite of civilization’s advance now, 
We wouldn’t stand much chance now, 
And we’d surely have to dance now, 

If we should hap to funk. 


115 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


MEMORIES 

What is the mystic power that sways 
And to mind old memories bring, 

And thoughts revert to childhood days 
And the luring wools of Spring? 

What pleasure it was as a boy 
To roam the woods among, 

When Nature’s heart throbbed with joy 
And poured it forth in song. 

Through shady woodland nooks 
With leafy boughs aswing, 

And music of the rippling brooks 
And birds upon the wing. 

My thoughts fly backward to the time 
When I was a simple Cumbrian lad, 

When the springtime’s genial clime 
Made my heart feel glad. 

I thought the primrose the fairest flower 
That ever gladdened eye, 

And my heart was moved with strange mystic power 
When the first opening bud I’d spy. 

And in our elder years 

We dream of youthful scenes again, 

And many a fabric fancy rears 
Of mingled joy and pain. 

To dwell again in the past 
The mind of age is prone, 

Before memory’s eye events of youth come crowding fast, 
With all their glamour gone. 

Yet what memories can sweeter be 
To which a heart may cling, 

And over our sunset years 
A brighter radiance fling. 


116 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


WHEN I WAS YOUNG 

There was a time when there was nought but joy on earth, 
Everywhere new pleasures sprung, 

Till with the sounds of mirth 
The world wide welkin rung, 

In the frolicking days, the rollicking days— 

The days when I was young. 

The lasses would proudly preen, 

Away workday cares were flung, 

To meet the lads upon the green, 

Then blythesome songs were sung, 

In the yodeling days the coddling days, 

The days when I was young. 

It was a cheerful sight to see 

How light moved foot and tongue, 

When hearts were welling o’er with glee 
In the follying days, the jollying days, 

The days when I was young. 


WHAT THE PRAIRIES HOLD 

Do you know what it is to tread with bruised feet 
On the stoney land? 

Have you felt the sweltering heat 
Of the tawny sand? 

Ah! well if that be so, 

You have seen the summer time, 

But have you seen the swirling snow 
Drive through a frozen clime? 

Do you know the winter days, 

How many and how cold? 

He is well skilled in prairie ways 
Who knows all that prairies hold. 

With death he oft walks hand in hand, 

Yes, maybe every day, 

Who stays with the prairie land 
Through white and green and grey. 

117 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


A MORNING IN JULY 

The world is full of pleasant ways 
When heaven and earth’s in tune, 

And poets sing of pleasant days— 

The perfect days of June, 

But I would tell with voice and pen 
Of wonders that I spy 
And beauties rising to my ken 
On a morning in July. 

The heart of Nature is with happiness replete 
Her greatest joy is bom, 

She has placed heads on the wheat 
And tassels on the corn. 

The fulfilling of promises begun 
Beneath a smiling sky 
She sees her greatest triumphs won 
On a morning in July 

Mother Earth is laboring for the harvest yield 
And glad the smile she wears, 

In the promise of the field 

And what the orchard bears. 

The world is full of light 
And scented winds go by, 

The earth is indeed a pleasant sight 
On a morning in July. 

Ever to a willing Earth 

Each season bring its joy, 

And time shall bring to birth 
New pleasures, sweet and coy, 

As time hurries past on nimble feet 
And years are rolling by, 

May they bring you joys as bright and sweet 
As a morning in July. 


118 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


YOUR OWN HEART 

If to some other heart in friendly part 
You have a tale to tell, 

Tell it from your own heart 
And you will tell it well. 

If others to nobleness you’d inspire by every power and art 
And that voice to them in song should swell 

Then sing it from your own, heart 
And you will sing it well. 

But if you would the soul to life and feeling start 

And sing a living song that will make others’ hearts respond 
to your call 

Then sing it to your own heart 
And you’ll sing best of all. 

And sing of the real and living part 

’Tis only the heartfelt soulful things in human life endures; 

As you’ll find when the echoes of another heart 
Shall touch a chord in yours. 


LADY OF THE SOLITUDES 

Oh, Lady of the Solitudes, 

With love of Nature blest, 

Thy haunts are where rude traffic ne’er intrudes, 
Nor jarring sounds molest. 

And each great wide open space 
That lone and silent lies, 

Smiling into Heaven’s face, 

Created by the All-wise.. 

Works of Nature, full of grace, 

With which no art can vie, 

Oh, may they never show a trace 
Of what would offend thine eye. 

May noisy crowds never overwhelm 
Thy beloved wild domain, 

Or seek dominion o’er thy realm 
In pursuit of gain. 

And be some sweet spot still unmarred, 

And kept from sordid purpose free, 

That the powers above shall watch and guard, 
And keep as sanctuary for thee. 

119 



MUSINOS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE OLD PIONEER 

The valley was green and fair, 

All fresh after rain, 

Smoke curled up in the summer air 
That warmed the fields of grain. 

Happy noisy children played 
Around each man’s abode, 

When down the mountain glade 
An ancient stranger rode. 

His hair was white and thick and long, 

His eyes were bright and clear, 

Buckskin his garb and laced with thong, 

And adorned with bits of uncouth gear. 

The curious people looked on him 
As a ghost from by-gone time, 

And wondered through what queer whim 
He wore a fur cap in that glowing clime. 

They hailed him “Man of the old time West, 

From whence have you sprung, 

Have you been sleeping on some mountain’s breast 
Since the time when Indian bows were strung? 

What has brought you to the busy world 
From your wild retreat, 

Where trails around the hills are curled, 

Back to the noisy street? 

What broke your Rip Yan Winkle sleep 
And started you out again? 

Was it eagle crying over the mountain steep, 

Or coyote on the plain? 

The old man answered, “Long time ago I came this way, 
Yes, some good men and I, 

Men brave to fight and strong to stay, 

Men of keen and fearless eye. 

It was in those early days 

When hearts were stout and bold, 

We traveled by unknown ways 
To search the hills for gold. 


120 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


There was Orton Smith and Harlan Wick, 

And there was Billy Bligh, 

All good men with shovel and pick, 

And Pegleg Pete and I. 

I was a kid many years from my prime, 

What year it was I do not know, 

I’ve kept no count of the nicks of time, 

It seems almost a hundred years, it was so long ago. 

We camped out there by yonder buttes. 

That loom hazily against the sky. 

And ever on the red Piutes 
We kept a watchful eye. 

Then our good cook, Pegleg Pete, 

He grew sick as hell, 

He was so sick he couldn’t eat, 

What ailed him we couldn’t tell. 

We waited day after day 
In hopes he would get well, 

Then his body we bore away, 

Down to the grassy dell. 

Then we sought by cove and copse 
To find violets somewhere, 

But the twigs held but icy drops 
And not a flower was there. 

And we buried Peter Wyon 

With cold, blustering winds arave, 

The only flower we found was a dandelion 
And we laid it on his grave. 

We stood by that new made mound 
To bid a last goodbye, 

Have you that sorrow found 
And seen a comrade die? 

A good clean soul had Pegleg Pete, 

Though he found that life was hard, 

When he comes to the Mercy seat 
He’ll surely get his reward. 


121 



MU8INGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


I am going to gather a bunch of flowers smelling sweet 
As many as my arms can bear, 

To lay on the grave of Pegleg Pete— 

He is lying over there. 

The old man went on his way 
To do his errand of love, 

Where ridges dry and grey 
Surround the sheltered cove. 

In a few days he came back that way 
And he was riding slow, 

What had caused his delay? 

People sought to know. 

“Did you find the place where your comrade lies? 

And did you deck it so, 

And array it in loving guise 
With wild flowers that blow?” 

“I sought until my eyes were dim 
And found but an empty hole, 

I think the angels have come and gotten him 
And they have made him whole. 

But I laid the flowers by the camping place of Pegleg 
Pete, 

It seems ’twas not his home, 

And I will tell him when we meet 
In the place beyond the dome. 

Now I’ll go back to the desert land, 

The settlements hold nought for me, 

I dwell among the works of God’s own hand, 

The home of God and me.” 

And he went onward then 

To where the blue haze lies, 

Far from the crowding homes of men 
And the sight of human eyes. 


122 




BY RICHARD FORSTER 


They thought as into the distant haze 
They saw him disappear, 

A relic he, of other days— 

The old Pioneer. 

Every structure that we raise, 

Every dwelling here 
Is a monument to him of other days— 
The old Pioneer. 


WHAT BIRD WOULD I CHOOSE TO BE 

If I could be a bird 

What bird then would I be? 

Would I be the resplendent blue bird 
Or the little chickadee? 

Would I be the crested skylark, 

Singing ’way up in the air, 

Or nightingale, queen of the balmy dark, 

Amid summer blossoms fair? 

Which would I choose do you think, 

Of all birds I’ve seen in lands where I have trod? 

I would choose to be the bobolink 
Singing on the goldenrod. 

I would not be the eagle or bird with voice so loud, 

The humblest thing that lives, lives in the sight of God. 

I would attempt no lofty flights away up in the cloud, 
But I would live lowly, down near the dewy sod. 

Where a brook flows through fields and meadows, 

Where cresses and water lilies drink, 

And through the netted shadows, 

The golden sunbeams blink. 

Where slender reeds to stately cattails nod. 

In fields where to modest daisies the dandelions wink 

There, clinging to a goldenrod, 

I would be a bobolink. 


123 



MUSINOS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE BOSS, THE CAMP JACK AND THE HERDER 

These herders are getting on their horns 

You can’t move without stepping on their corns, 
The stingy Boss remarked, 

They are kicking just like double bell 
Look at ’em cross and they yell 
The cranky campjack barked. 

Said the Boss, Find out what they want 
And answer every one with can’t 
As much as ever you can, 

The campjack set his mouth askew 
Took out his plug, bit off a chew 

And says, “I guess it is some plan. 

It seems the sensiblest thing to do 
And I reckon Boss it is up to you 
To try it Mr. Man: 

They won’t carp a yap for anything I say 
So just hop to it and fire away 
You’ll end where you began. 

I think you’ve got it down right pat 

So you just go and tell the herder that 
And hear what that hombre says 

I guess he’ll make Geewillikins jump 
And come down hard with a thump 
That’ll raise dust in a thick haze. 

The Boss spoke to the herder, he began by saying 
Considering the wages that I’m paying 
And all the grub you’re gettin’ 

I tell you it is costing me a heap 
You’re not living so very cheap 
That sure is safe bettin’.” 

The herder answerd “Oh! hell 

That hard luck story, please don’t tell 
For it amounts to nuffin. 

Do you think I’ll swallow that stale stuff 
No thank you, I’ve had enough 
You must think I’m a muffin. 


124 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


With all the money that you’re making 
I’d think you’d stop your belly aching 
And also quit your kiddin’ 

D’ye think sheepherdin’s a sublime joy, 

It’s not, believe me, My dear Boy, 

Sometimes it’s pretty hard sleddin’. 

As for grub, I’m getting thin and gaunt 
And unless you give me what I want 
You can go pumb to hello.” 

Says the Boss, “Why that’s a helluva note 
And considering all the grub I’ve bought 
I think you are a helluva fellow.” 

“Well,” Says the herder, “You gotta give me good 
grub and plenty 

And ten dollars more a month, or better make it 
twenty, 

Or go and get another.” 

Says Boss, “d’ye think that I’m made of dough 
Or are you trying to queer the show 
And give me a lot of bother.” 

As to twenty dollars more a month, damn, if I give it. 
If there is any better than a herder’s life I’d sure 
like to live it 

He has sure got a gorgeous income 

And it’s me that has to stand the rub 
As to hard sleddin’ and want of grub 
That is surely bunkum. 

I’ve got to live as well as you 

But now let me tell you what I’ll do 
I’ll give you just ten dollars more 
Take it, leave it, or go to hell 
I think you fellows are paid too well 
You’d make a bonehead sore.” 

Says the herder, I’ll take it if the grub is right 
If not, then Mr. Boss, Goodnight, 

I go a hikin’, 

That must be settled on the spot 
For what comfort has a herder got 
If things aren’t to his likin’? 


125 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Says the Boss, “You’ll have all the grub you can eat 
And pickles both sour and sweet 
Until your belly’s busted 
Or else until I go broke, 

For I tell you this is the last stroke 
I surely am disgusted.” 


THE COMMON MAN 

A man may climb the height of fame 
And sway a nation’s will, 

The why, the where, or how he came 
Was it for good or ill? 

Standing high above his fellowmen 
We think that he is great, 

Though looming high in the world’s ken 
Hie may be but a tool in the hand of fate. 

Now and then a genius comes at Destiny’s call 
To assist in her plan, 

But the central figure in all 
Is just the common man. 

The mind of Genius availeth nought 
Though it lead the van, 

Were it not that the guiding thought 
Is for the common man. 

All labor by genius wrought 
Through all the earthly span, 

All the work with blessings fraught 
Is for the co mm on man. 

\ 

Bountiful gifts God has given 
To further His Great Plan, 

The salvation of earth, the hope of Heaven, 
For the common man. 


126 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


MOUNTAINS IN THE MOONLIGHT 


Laurel leaves a shining, 

Beautiful the sight, 

Embowering vines entwining, 

Weaving shadows in the night. 

Myriad dewdrops glistening, 

Sparkling and cool 
God of Nature listening, 

Stars shining in the pooL 

Scattered clouds are drifting, 

Fleecy, soft and light, 

White mists arifting 
On the distant height. 

Bright are the moonbeams 
Shining on the leaves, 

Soft are the star gleams, 

Where the flickering shadow weaves. 

Murmuring of brook, 

Glancing through the green, 

Bushes bend and crook 
Making leafy screen. 

Moonlight on the mountain, 

Beautiful and clean, 

Gurgling of fountain 

Lends charm to the scene. 

Shadows of the wood, 

Filtered moonlight dim. 

The work of God is good, 

Mountain is the meeting place with Him.. 


Silence and solitude, 

Welcome gifts of heaven, 
Sweet to the mind imbued, 
With Nature’s leaven. 


127 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE OLD YEAR 

The sun has set on the Old Year 
And he is dying fast; 

We’ll bid farewell to the Old Year, 

He’ll soon be in the past. 

Then turn we to crown the New Year 
With all his promise fair, 

Forgetful that the Old Year 
Was once enthroned there 

And while you welcome the New Year 
With all his glowing hope, 

Think, he will follow the Old Year 
Down time’s unending slope. 

Then heave a sigh for the Old Year 
And the friend that could not stay, 

After him will follow the New Year 
Down the inevitable way. 

Think kindly of the Old Year, 

The time is coming fast 

Wlhen like the Old Year 

We will pass into the Past. 

Perhaps hopes were bom in Old Year 
That the New can never bring, 

The leaves that now are withered and sear 
Will not be green next spring. 

May the sun shine on the New Year, 

May his skies be blue; 

Fresh hopes and flowers for the New Year 
Is what I wish for you. 


'hr v 

■jjfci. 


128 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


WHAT THE HERDER NEEDS, AND WHAT THE BOSS 
THINKS HE OUGHT TO HAVE 

A little to eat and something to wear, 

Something to drink and lots of fresh air. 

What the herder thinks he ought to have— 

Different kinds of breakfast foods, 

A large variety of other kinds of goods, 

Bacon, corn, cabbage, tomatoes and spuds, 

Onions, raisins and rice. 

Pickles, preserves, jelly and jam, 

Cheese, crackers, oysters, eggs and ham, 

Pears, peaches, apricots, pineapple and yam, 

And everything that’s nice. 

Water that is cool, clear, 

With plenty of good cheer 

Quantities of near beer 

And champagne kept on ice. 


AMONG THE PINES 

I herd about the mountain’s feet 
And on the steep inclines, 

Where the wandering breezes meet 
To whisper to the pines. 

I sit by purling streams 

Where flashing water shines, 

I bask in the sunny beams 
And herd among the pines. 

I walk along the lofty ridge 
Of jagged mountain lines, 

Or sit on the rimrock edge 
And listen to the pines. 

Sometimes when seasons change 
And frosty starlight shines, 

I visit then a dreamland range 
And herd among the pines. 


129 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE SHEEPHERDER 

Some wonder how the herder lives 
Through the lonesome days, 

He knows the boon that Nature gives 
To those who love her ways. 

To him the time flies fast, 

Nature’s transient frowns, her sunny smiles, 

The herder’s time beguiles, 

Until the day is past. 

To him solitude has charms 
That many do not know, 

And she waits with open arms 
To those who love her so. 

What boon you ask, can Nature in solitude bestow? 

She sings to him in sweetest notes, 

And fills him with the sweetest thoughts 
That any heart can know. 

The drifting cloud, the scent of flowers, 

The sound of flowing streams 
Are with him in his waking hours 
And linger in his dreams. 

In his enchanted sphere 

With forest giants that tower aloft, 

Wandering breezes converse in whispers soft 
That only herders hear. 

But you say, when storms race across the sky, 
And the lightning’s fire is streaming, 

When hail or rain is hurtling by, 

Is not a time for dreaming. 

And winter is a time of little cheer 
When bitter blizzards blow, 

Out among the swirling snow 

The herder’s lot is surely drear. 

The herder’s heart is loyal and strong, 

The herder’s heart is brave, 

He stands above the common throng 
As a rock stands above the wave. 

To his duty he’ll be true— 

The midnight storm, darkness and cold, 

Or dangers they may hold— 

He will face them through. 

130 




BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Oft’ his thought it wings 

Away beyond the world’s rim, 

And the wanton wind it sings 
Of wonderful things to him. 

As his wild fancies flow 

Voices from faraway pasts 

Come to him on the boisterous blasts 
Of the winds that blow. 

Those rock berampired hills, 

What other eyes have seen? 

What ears have heard the wind that shrills 
What have bygone ages been? 

Those peoples of the pasts, so distant and so dim, 
He conjures them again, 

Until they people hill and plain, 

And live and move with him. 

When the westering sun’s levelling beams 
Set the hills aglow, 

Then he thinks of thoughts and themes 
Which others may never know. 

On peaks, some near, some faraway, 

He sees the lingering light, 

And shadows creeping up the height 
Foretell the close of day. 

Then he hears the God of Nature’s psalm, 

It sets his soul aglow, 

He feels a sweet and holy calm 
That few can ever know. 

And feels kin to the myriad orbid fires hung on high 
That twinkle in the fading light, 

Celestial watch fires of the night 
And guardians of the sky. 


131 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


BEYOND THE SKYLINE 

I climb to some high place, 

I look around and see 
The great wide open space 
That is home to me. 

Mile on mile the ridges lie 
Like waves of a rolling sea 
As though a gale had piled them high 
Then suddenly ceased to be. 

Across them sunbeams glimmer and glance 
They glint and gleam and glare 
Till butte and sand dune seem to dance 
Through the quivering air. 

At the wonders that I see 
My soul with rapture fills 
And oft there comes to welcome me 
The wind across the hills. 

As it sweeps by butte and dune 
To me it seems to sing 
That all of nature is in tune 
And a soul in everything. 

M;y thoughts fly to the far skyline 
And unseen lands beyond 
And to those questing thoughts of mine 
The roving winds respond. 

To us there is no far skyline 
To us there is no land of ’yond, 

We can scale each steep incline 
Unfettered by tie or bond. 

We know all of land and sea, 

We know of stream and pond. 

We are so free there can never be 
To us a land of ’yond. 

The surging tides our steeds may he 
We ride the earth and air 
So easy and swift move we 

To us can only be the w T orld of Everywhere. 

132 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


OLD NEWT AND BILL 

They were moving camp and Old Newt, 

He says to Billy Bond, 

“Go over to that rocky butte 

And about half a mile beyond. 

I'll put the camp somewhere thereabout 
Just where I cannot say, 

So keep a sharp lookout 
And don’t go far away.” 

So thus directed by Old Newt, 

Away goes Billy Bond, 

He goes to that rocky butte 

And about twenty miles beyond. 

When he couldn’t find the camp 
So red-hot was his ire, 

That though the night was dark and damp 
He had no need of fire. 

Said he, “When I catch that long-legged stork 
I’ll hit him in the eye, 

He’s trying to get in his dirty work 
But I say it won’t get by.” 

When Newt hunts up Bill 

And Bill meets up with Newt, 

Each the other tried to kill, 

So fierce was the dispute. 

Bill landed a mule-like kick 
With a number nine, 

It made Old Newt rather sick 
But still he didn’t whine. 

With a mighty hamlike fist 

He kept beating on Billy’s block 
Till common sense made him desist, 

It was like pounding on a rock. 

Then he changed his tactics quick 
And he swung his foot 
And planted a hefty kick 
Bight on Billy’s butt. 

It made Billy feel rather queer, 

It put in him a kink, 

The perfume that pervaded the atmosphere, 
Some would call a-. 


133 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


BUCK 

He had herded long where feed was scarce, 

Buck Binnon was his name, 

The brush was short and sparse, 

And Buck was rather lame. 

But fate decreed it was his luck 
That he should have a change, 

So angels rounded up old Buck 
And took him over the range. 

As I laid among the dew bejewelled grass 
With snow-white blossoms starred, 

I think I heard them pass 
Going heavenward. 

There was a sound as of angel voiced uttering, 
Benisons low and sweet 
Mingling with sound of wings a-fluttering 

Blent with the rustle of winds across the wheat. 

And a murmuring as of distant seas 
That beat upon the strand, 

But soft as a summer breeze 
That wanders over the land. 

Then far away it seemed to go 
And fainter it grew and died, 

Till I in fancy saw 

The pearly portals open wide. 

And a form I saw 

That angels led inside, 

Of course just then I did not know 
That old Buck had died. 

Though on pastures new and strange 
Buck will not find it hard, 

On the celestial range, 

Where good angels guard. 


134 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


THE SHEEPHERDER’S WORLD 

To solitude and wilderness confined 
Is the herder’s sequestered way, 

But the fleet winged children of his mind 
Can have boundless play. 

He breathes the spice of orient isles 
And perfumes of Araby, 

His mind outspans the measured miles 
That limit land and sea. 

And still his world widens out 
Into illimitable space, 

Nor is it ever walled about 
By custom, creed or race. 

The politician’s cunning art 
Seems to him a puny thing. 

Ah! not for him devious part 
Of coterie, clique or ring. 

Nought knows he of subtle art 
Or lures of renown 

Nor covets the wealth of crowded mart, 

Or envies the busy ways of denizens of the town. 

Not even he who steers the ship of state 
Can sail such boundless seas, 

For the herder there await 
Greater worlds than these. 

Alone he treads the silent ways, 

Mayhap among flowers or snow, 

With his todays and yesterdays 
And eons of long ago. 

Not so drear is the herder’s lot 
Nor to narrow space confined, 

Companion he with thought, 

He lives in a world of mind. 


135 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE LAND OF LONESOME WOE 

The tenderfoot has come on the range, 

To him it seems all terrible and strange 
Harsh welcome the wild lands show; 

He is face to face with the grim unknown 
And hears but the winds mid moan 
In the land of Lonesome Woe. 

The summer comes with torrid heat 
On parched earth the sunbeams beat 
And every pebble reflects the glow; 

On the flats the shimmering heat mist lies 
And he looks with the light of longing in his eyes 
Across the land of Lonesome Woe. 

Looking to where the dead hills lie 
Gazing absently with vacant eye 
What aches his heart may know 
When away the mind is drawn, 

Over a path with memories strewn 

Leading away from the land of Lonesome Woe. 

And sterner still are the Desert’s ways 
When he is alone in Winter days, 

Cruel as a relentless foe 

Are the rigors that must be endured, 

Until the stranger becomes inured 
To the land of Lonesome Woe. 

He looks across a desolate waste 

Across a landscape white and chaste 
An expanse of virgin snow, 

Far his vagrant thoughts they fly 
Away between earth and sky 
Over the land of Lonesome Woe. 

Not yet is the herder bom 

Till he herds between night and morn 
When clouds are drifting low 

And has stood where the rude tempest jars 
And feels himself brother of the wind swept stars 
Over the land of Lonesome Woe. 


136 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


When out into the winter night 
Out into the dismal white 
Duty bids him go 

When violent gusts rush by 
And choking snow flurries fly 
In the land of Lonesome Woe. 

Ah! then indeed is the herder born 

Sometime betwixt the night and mom 
In the cold, in wind, and snow 

And the elements strive with him 
Until the light of Life grows dim 
In the land of Lonesome Woe. 


IDAHO 

The sun behind the Needles just has set, 

I stood and watched him go, 

The yellow light is gleaming yet 
On fields of Idaho. 

The night and day are met 

Below those mountain peaks aglow, 

But the golden rays are beaming yet 
On fields of Idaho. 

The valleys darker and darker get 
As fades the afterglow, 

But the golden beams are slanting yet 
Over fields of Idaho. 

Night’s dusky curtain down is let, 

The dark comes creeping slow, 

But the golden rays are glinting yet 
On hills of Idaho. 

Oft I gaze across that mountain chain 
WTien a dreary waste of snow, 

And fondly hope to see again 
The land of Idaho. 

But long and weary is the trail 
As full well I know, 

Winding over hill and dale through many a vale 
To the land of Idaho. 


137 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHFRDER 


THE SHEEPHERDER ON THE RANGE 

The sheepherder lives much alone 

And wanders over leagues of range, 

He sees wonderful things in stocn>e, 

Things old and strange. 

Often to his notice is brought 

Relics of some ancient race of yore; 

He sees the work that elements wrought 
Ten millions years before. 

He knows the desert’s glaring blaze 
The sultry heat of sumjmer noons, 

The bitter cold of winter days, 

And the light of languid moons. 

He knows Nature in her fickle ways 
He moods of gleam and gloom, 

Her cloudy days, her sunny days, 

Her time of leaf and bloom. 

H|e awaits the sweet vernal time 
The time of buds and flowers, 

When birds come from southern clime 
To wake the northern bowers. 

Often through days and weeks, 

Through times of shadow and shine 
He will watch the loom of distant peaks 
On some far sky-line. 

In the mountain torrent’s gush 

In the sounds that float in the air, 

By every pebble and sage bush, 

A thought is lingering there. 

The herder through long, long hours, 

Gathers thoughts wonderful and rare, 

But like the perfume of wild flowers 

Oft’ they are wasted on the desert air. 

Sometimes het will sing 

And pour forth his thoughts in song, 

While like a bird on the wing 
Time glides along. 

Or he may sit and doze 
Over some romantic page, 

Where the scented zephyr blows 
Across the fragrant sage. 

138 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


THE TRAIL ACROSS THE HILLS 

The lines like twin ribbons lie 
Through the sage and sand, 

That mark the trail where men go by 
To places in the land. 

Down into a hidden vale 
Sometimes it disappears, 

Ah, if it could but tell its tale, 

Its tale of all the years. 

Then on far distant heights 

It serves through days and nights 
It serves throughout the years. 

What horsemen have rode on it 
Since it first became a way, 

What tired feet have trod on it 
Since that long distant day. 

What sanguine hearts have brought to it 
Their hopes from far away, 

What straining teams have wrought to it 
The lines through sand and clay. 

What groaning wheels have turned on it 
Through the dusty heat, 

What pounding hoofs have spurned on it 
With quick impatient beat. 

What thoughtful minds have learned on it 
The way of the West, 

What weary ones have yearned on it 
For a place of rest. 

What wanderers have sought on it 
A way through sagebrush grey. 

And eager glances caught on it 
Of those who were astray. 

Together some have journeyed on 
Though urged by varied wills 
And some have traveled alone 
That trail across the hills. 

It began a string leading to the unknown 
A siring of throbs and thrills 
And many have journeyed on 
That trail across the hills. 

139 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPffERDER 


ON THE RANGE 

Out in the wilding land 

In the sunlight’s blinding glare, 

You see the dust raised by the woolly band 
There is a lone sheepherder there. 

Brown his face and brown his hands, 

For he is tanned so, 

He lives among the open lands 
With rollicking winds ablow. 

He wanders over prairie, ways 
Over trails of long ago, 

Trails made in other days 
By deer and buffalo. 

Oft of the past he finds a trace, 

Homs and skull and bones scattered wide, 
All that is left to mark the place 
Where a prairie monarch died. 

As he picks up from where it lies 
An arrowhead of chipped flint, 

Visions appear before his eyes 
Of Indians with beads aglint. 

A relic it is of the old stone age 
That seems too far away, 

But reading in history’s page 
It died but yesterday. 

And fragments there are of wood 
And bones all petrified, 

Sets him in wondering mood 

As to when those strange creatures died. 

The sheepherder lives alone, 

A man of sober mien, 

Pondering of time long gone, 

And things that may have been. 

He sees as through distant haze 
The forms of men who have gone, 

Passing like yesterdays 

While others are coming on. 

Many have roamed the range 
But who shall come to stay, 

Posterity will not think it strange 

When to others the herder shall give way. 

140 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


But hills and woods and rocks and streams 
For ages oft their secrets keep, 

And reveals them to the man of dreams— 

The man who herds the sheep. 

Sometimes his mind is filled 

With thoughts all unexpressed. 

With thoughts that won’t be stilled, 

Then he feels distressed. 

Then the herder goes to town 

To give those thoughts a souse, 

Till they are sodden down 

And well embalmed in booze. 

Then he’ll go back to the plain— 

Back to the open range, 

Until the thoughts wake again. 

Then he needs a change. 

SUNSET VALLEYS 

Why seek the ancient ruin 

Because ’twas known to fame? 

Why follow well known paths 
To scenery mild and tame? 

Turn ye to the Sunset valleys 
If you’d see scenes sublime, 

’Where the mountain torrent sallies 
Through the wrinkles of Old Time. 

Seek ye the silent glades— 

Go where the virgin forest stands, 

Where the deer hide in dusky shades 
Of lonesome mountain lands. 

Turn to the sunset valleys 
If you’d see scenes sublime, 

Where the force of Nature rallies 
To the heartbeats of Old Time 

Go, where with riving winds and driving showers 
The rocks are ragged and worn, 

Among those craggy mountain towers 
The thunder king is born. 

Seek ye the Sunset valleys, 

If you’d see scenes sublime 
Where wanton Nature dallies 

With heart throbs of Old Time. 

141 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


BROTHER TO NATURE 

The wind that sings to desert things 
Sings unto me, 

The eagle that swings on outspread wings 
Comrade is to me. 

The winds that blow over Arctic snow 
Or leagues of tropic seas, 

Though where they go no man may know, 

But brother I am to these. 

Clouds that lazily drift across the vaulted lift 
Asleep on the errant breeze, 

And those that triumphant sail on the rampant gale - 
Brother I am to these. 

The solitary pine on the high skyline 
Brother is to me, 

And so is the lone land mark, dark and stark 
That points the way to me. 

And brother is he to the wind of morn 
And to the stars that shine, 

Brother to the sun that yellows the corn, 

And to the clinging vine. 

Brother is he to the mountain peaks, 

And to the drifts of snow, 

Brother to the little creeks 

And the mighty rivers that flow 

Brother is he to grass and flowers 
And to the stately pine, 

Brother is he to the minutes and hours, 

Who lives a life like mine. 


142 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


THE DESERT IS PASSING AWAY 

Things have been changing since first I went ranging, 
After woolies that wandered astray; 

Where the herder was ranging now the farmer is granging 
And stubble stands in bristly array. 

Now flashes water in silvery sheen 
Where once the desert held sway 

And the gleam of ploAV and shovel is seen 
The desert is passing away. 

There is nothing to show where red men have been 
When they rode forth to the fray, 

And nothing to tell when the greasewood is green 
Or the sagebrush sombre and grey; 

Now alfalfa fields a rich bounty yield 
And supply the granger with hay 

Where the Indian used to wield the spear and the shield, 
The desert is passing away. 

The old pioneer sees things looking queer 
Now he is grizzled and grey; 

The time is drawing near when he’ll go from here 
He, too, is passing away. 

From the vales’ old marks have been rubbed 
Oh! things are different today, 

From the valley the sage brush is grubbed 
The desert is passing away. 

Towms have been built w r here blood was once spilt 
By men who were eager to slay, 

When it w^as war to the hilt and the weaker would wilt 
And fall to his bed on the clay; 

Where one time w T as dearth of water on sun-blistered earth 
Trees are shading today, 

Amid sounds of bustle and mirth, new scenes have birth, 
The desert is passing away. 


143 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPBJERDER 


FROM THE WILDERNESS 

“O! you, who are the wandering woolie’s warder 
Man without a home 
Herder, O! sheepherder, 

Tell us whence you’ve come.” 

“From the land of Nowhere’s border, 

With wild wind harps athrum, 

The home of the sheepherder, 

That is whence I’ve come. 

From regions vast and airy 

Where the bold free wind sings on, 

Over broad wide sweeps of prairie 
And hills of rugged stone.” 

“O! man of lonesome reaches 
With sullen winds amoan, 

Tell us what instinct teaches 
To love a land so lone.” 

“The God who made the earth 
Made it sweet and clean, 

He gave us at our birth 
To see as He hath seen.” 

“What see you in wilderness so drear 
In barren wastes of stone, 

What is there to cheer 

A life so lorn and lone?” 

“The great voice hath said it 
To the soul that understands, 

For great purpose He made it, 

’Twas made by mighty hands.” 

“But for the wind’s mournful voicings 
The desert stillness reigns, 

What is there to stir the heart’s rejoicings 
In the wind’s sad solemn strains?” 

“Not to us is Nature mute, 

We hear her harmonies sublime 
And on rock and wind-swept butte 
Are writ the records of old Time.” 


144 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


“From the mountain’s stoney face 
What knowledge can you gain? 

From a gloomy desert place 

What pleasure can you obtain? 

“In the mountain I read that without careful tending 
Your building will not endure, 

It needs watchfulness unending 
To keep your work secure. 

“That the desert is not a place of gloom 
You would understand 

If you had seen the cactus bloom 
On the arid land. 

“And the cactus spears outreaching 
To defend what is their own, 

Ever this lesson teaching 

Be not tamely trampled down. 

“And million spears outstanding 
Around the throne of Right, 

Greater respect still commanding 
When Right has power of might. 

“The puny world you are building 
Though you build fair to see, 

Its ostentation and its gilding 
Have no lure for me. 

“To me the desert fastness 
A wonderful world can be, 

The wilderness in its vastness 
Has room for the soul in me.” 


145 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHFRDER 


TO A FRIEND 

Sometimes I see you on woodland strath 
Where a slanting sunbeam shines, 
Making a bright and golden path 
Among the dusky pines. 

Or perhaps where a brook sings noisily 

Its song throughout the years, 

And great trees listen drowsily 
Your sylphlike form appears. 

Sometimes on a mountain side 
That is all bowlder strewn, 

Or where groves deep and wide 
Are with wooing winds adrone. 

Or maybe on a mountain top 
I glimpse your sunlit hair 
Ah! my fancies will never stop 
But I think your throne is there. 

And though I know I’m dreaming, 

I still go dreaming on, 

For then pleasant thoughts come streaming 
At other times unknown. 

“How useless the dreamer is,” 

I think I hear some say, 

“If only he would attend to “biz,” 

Instead of idling time away. 

But you and I, we know material things 
Are not all in this life of ours; 

W>e joy in the bird that sings 

And in the sunshine on the flowers. 

The beauty that we have seen 
Shall in our memories live, 

Rejoicing in what has been, 

Still further joy shall give. 


146 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Rude hands may pick the buttercup 

And make it a thing for traffic hours* 

But they cannot gather the sunshine up— 

It is beyond their trading powers. 

Yet it is of far more worth 

Than the world’s merchandise, 

The fruitfulness of earth it brings forth, 

And is beyond all price. 

It is something that we cannot touch, 

Though it lies upon our hand, 

What is there that we need so much? 

Without it earth would be but bleak and barren land. 

Sentiment or some unstable thing 
May be to the soul a gem 
Things to which our hearts may cling, 

Our lives have need of them. 

Our hearts may sustain a loss 
And we may laugh and smile, 

And assume a cheerful gloss 
Though suffering all the while. 

Mingling in the world’s strife 
We may cease to mourn, 

For something gone from out our life, 

That never can return. 

Oft in dreams we seek relief 

And find forgetfulness divine, 

Sometimes I wonder if Wandanwan, that ancient chief, 
Had a lonelier heart than mine. 


147 



MUSING8 OF A SHEEPHFRDER 


THE LUKE OF THE RANGE 

Some toil and sweat to till the grange 
And sow for others to reap, 

While I wander over the open range 
And herd another’s sheep. 

The years that have crept across the range, 

Since I first began 
Have wrought a change 

And I am a grey old man. 

To stay on the range in grey old age, 

Perhaps it may be wrong 
But the lure of the grey green sage 
Is just as strong. 

I might bid the sheep and range, good-by, 

But I know it would be in vain 
Because, when I in slumber lie 
They come to me again. 

Night comes with dusky wings a-sweep 
The daytime sounds she stills, 

Then I am following the sheep 
Away over dreamland hills. 

And far away through the glades of Slumberland 
I and the woolies go, 

And we seem to understand 

We are going to a place we know. 

Away beyond the farthest ken 
Beyond the realms of snow, 

Beyond the fixed abodes of men 
Where only sweet winds blow. 

And grass is rich and deep 

And thick with flowers abloom, 

Where feed contented sheep 
With never a fear of doom. 


148 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


INDIAN BORN 

She was but a little child 
Of Indian parents born, 

When taken from the western wild 

To where city towers rise to greet the morn. 

She knew nought of Indian speech 
Nor of Indian home, 

No Indian mother was there to teach 
Her little feet to roam. 

And reared in city haunts 

In luxury she lived and grew 
To supply her earthly wants 
Wealth lavish favors threw. 

She knew little of the outside world, 

Nor cared what it might hold. 

And nought of the wild strain so closely furled 
That the future might yet unfold. 

Her foster parents had friends 

Where fruitful Californian vales tell of triumphs won, 
Where the broad Sacramento wends 
Its way flashing in the sun. 

And when aboard the train 
And traveling to the west 
Not then did that wild strain 
Cause her heart unrest. 

But when at a broken bridge 

The train was brought to stand 
She went out and crossed a ridge 
And looked on the mountain land. 

The weather was bright and clear 
But yet was rather cold, 

The mellow sunbeams brought much cheer, 

Flushing the hills with gold. 

The soughing of the wind then 
Among the droning pine, 

Brought the tang of the wilderness to her ken 
And seized her like strong wine. 


149 



MUSINQS OF A SHEEPJ^ERDER 


And the blublubblub of restless water 
Slipping among the iee 
Nature’s music taught her 
In ways that so entice. 

And the call of wild things in the wood 
To her heart what tales they told, 

And set bounding her Indian blood 
With the thrill of times of old. 

It was then the wilderness she loved 
And with a yearning that was strange 
Her Indian nature was deeply moved 

Longing for the wild freedom of the range. 

It was then she resolved to go 
To wild places of the earth, 

Though she did not know 
Of her Indian birth. 

She would taste the freedom of wilding things 
And over the hills a-scramble, 

By woods and streams and springs 
On many a starlight ramble. 

But just then from the train a hideous toot 
Broke on her heart’s wild dream, 

Recalling her thoughts to smoke and soot 
From wood and hill and stream. 

Not yet, thought she, the way is clear 
To leave behind me civilization, 

I must go with my parents dear, 

Unto their destination. 

Californa has forests and hills with flowers all abloom 
And mountains that are of wondrous height 
Against the opal skies they loom— 

Eternal, cold and white. 

I have heard the sun sets the air aquiver 
I have heard of her giant trees, 

And she has many a noble river 
Whose waters never freeze. 


150 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


If there be instinct that a human’s got 
To me it shall reveal 
And guide me to the wildest spot 
That mounts and woods conceal. 

She went, and by mount and wood 
She revelled in solitude, 

And walked entranced by rushing flood 
That from the hills issued. 

There was no cloud on her sky, 

She was happy then, 

What instinct led her thus to fly 
From the busy world of men. 

But still the wheel of fortune turns 
As time brings cloudy days, 

So to us come joys or heartburns 
As fate or fortune says. 

Time came to return to the city of the east 
That is the Atlantic’s queen, 

Then it was her pleasure ceased 
That so intense had been. 

“"We shall soon go east again,” 

She heard her mother say, 

She heard the words with pain 
It was her cloudy day. 

With her parents she would go, 

From them she would not part, 

But, ah! they would never know 
How it wrung her heart. 

She reached the city, its dirt and noise 
Seemed no fit place for human, 

To her its pleasures were like childish toys 
To a full-grown woman. 

The joy of them had left her now, 

She felt like a caged wild bird, 
Longing for the green wood bough 
By summer breezes stirred. 


151 



MUSINOS OF A 8HEEPH\ERDER 


Men there were who came to woo, 

There w r ere suitors many, 

Men of wealth and high position, too, 

But she cared not for any. 

At last from remonstrance her mother could not refrain. 

“My daughter, dear, why don’t you make a choice? 

There are m,any suitors in your train 

Who would make any woman’s heart rejoice. 

Men who would be constant still to serve you 
And treat you like a princess of royal birth, 

Steadfast in trying to deserve you, 

And bestow on you the costliest jewels of the earth. 

Men who would raise you high in station, 

The highest people to move among, 

With the proudest of the nation, 

There you would belong. 

With the proudest of society at your feet 
Following you adoring, 

Till your social triumphs are complete, 

High above all others soaring.” 

“For social functions 1 care not, 

They make me very tired, 

Wish for social triumphs I bear not, 

By me they are undesired. 

Society’s senseless chatter 

Wlill never make my heart with pleasure glow, 

To me it will not matter 

If it’s delights I never know. 

It is like an unpleasant dream 

That from the waking mind will go, 

It is but the cold and turgid stream 
From the city’s miry snow. 

No man will I ever marry 
Who in town must dwell 
Not for long will I tarry 
Under the city’s spell. 


152 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


I will not consent to such a life 

For me it would be to suffer on the rack, 

I’d rather live by bow and knife 
On lonely mountain track.” 

Her foster mother, good lady was astounded 
And felt very much distressed 
She knew whence this wild nature now upbounded, 

But her knowledge was unexpressed. 

“Oh, daughter, it fills me with wonder 

That such thoughts should come unbidden, 

Perhaps in every one deep, deep under 

Is the spirit of the old cave people hidden. 

For comfort, luxury and ease 
There is no place like the city, 

If these things fail to please 
Then greater is the pity. 

Perhaps small joys are the country and nature giving, 
But it is not real life at all. 

For culture and elegance in living 
The city is the goal. 

What the city offers is something for you to treasure. 
So bethink you well, my child, 

You would find but little pleasure 
Out in the savage wild.” 

Some time had passed, those who loved her best 
Thought that she would die, 

They took her to the open places of the west, 

Where long and wide the prairies lie. 

Soon came back her strength 
And bright were her eyes, 

She often spent the whole day’s length 
Beneath the sunny skies. 

“Shall we now go back to town?” 

Her mother one day inquired, 

“Come, now, darling, do just own 
Of this dull place you’re tired” 


153 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


“Oh, no, dear mother, no,” she answered quick, 

Now I am well and strong, 

But I soon would be very sick 
If in the city’s throng. 

I love the sunshine and the cloud; 

I love the sky and plain, 

But the city’s smoky shroud 
Ever gives me pain.” 

Then one day an Indian came, 

When on her his ej^es were cast 
In his dusky breast was lit a flame 
That kept growing fast. 

He came again, as day followed in each day’s wake, 
Some little gift he brought, 

Oft something of Indian make 

That curiously and cunningly was wrought. 

By nature he was a well favored man 
But an unschooled, unlettered one, 

His handsome face bore the dark tan, 

The work of wind and sun. 

And he began to talk of love, 

Of a heart that was aflame, 

If a resistless power should move 
Who that heart can blame? 

“Brightest of stars, bright evening star, 

Let thy light on me shine, 

Let those eyes that send their light afar 
Kindle their light in mine. 

Be to me the sweet softness of moonlight, 

I will be thy noonday shine, 

To thine eyes I will be sunlight, 

Wilt thou be moonlight unto mine? 

Sweetest flower of the prairie, 

Thy sweetness scents the air, 

Be mine, Oh, my loved one, nay, now be not contrary, 
But save me from despair.” 


154 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


“No, no, I am not of your kind 
And such a thing may not be, 

Little, little joy we would find 
In union of such as we. 

I will not come down to your plane 
You must come up to mine, 

Say no more, your hopes are vain, 

Your offer I must still decline.” 

“I will go to the white man’s school, 

The white man’s knowledge I will learn, 
I will live by the white man’s rule, 

’Tis for your love I yearn. 

And I will rise far above you, 

Proud maiden of the east, 

Yet still, still I will love you 

Till life and death have ceased.” 

He sought the white man’s knowledge 
With purpose strong and steadfast, 

He went through school and college, 

And left with high honors at last. 

Then he sought the maiden, 

Told her how far he’d won, 

Told her of his life with purpose laden 
And of work yet to be done. 

But not for me the grime and toil 
Amid the city’s jarring din, 

But I will cultivate the soil, 

As a farmer I will win. 

At my home I have land 

That long I have possessed, 

This land at my demand 
Shall yield its very best. 

And my love has grown stronger, 

Stronger, deeper, higher— 

A love whose very hunger 
Has power to inspire. 


155 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Now, maiden, will you be my wife, 

Be the joy of my joy, 

Be my light, my soul, my life, 

My happiness without alloy?” 

“I am not sure I love you, 

And how can I tell, 

Wlhat way is there to prove you 

And there are others who love me well. 

You must still rise higher, 

Be stronger and nobler yet, 

The heart that will aspire 

Must be strong to strive and get.” 

Disappointment he felt keenly, 

It laid heavy on his heart. 

While she calmly, serenely 

Bade goodbye and rose to depart. 

He went and farmed his land 
With fair success he met, 

Laboring hard with head and hand 
In trying to forget. 

Disappointment had blinded him 
To things not yet acquired, 

But his fields reminded him 
Of what his soul desired. 

He saw each fertile field 
Rich and deep with grain, 

He resolved to bring as rich a yield 
From his fertile brain. 

He studied hard, he studied long, 

His thoughts were very deep, 

Till forces awoke within strong 
That had been long asleep. 

H)e broke from his race’s fetters 

But still retained the Indian patience; 
In the fields of science and letters 
He taught knowledge to the nations. 


156 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


His fortunes were varied, checkered, 

But the world accorded fame, 

In the world’s book of record 
Is indelibly writ his name. 

It was now by chance he met 
The man he hated most of all. 

By illness very sore beset 

Almost in shadow of death’s dark pall. 

“Ah,” said he, “This is the man she loves. 

I hate him with hell’s red hate, 

It now my hand behooves 
To hurry him to his fate.” 

He had seen them together many times before, 
To him much in love they seemed, 

Fierce hate he for his rival bore 
That he was such he deemed. 

He saw her bending near— 

He saw how she was grieved. 

“No,” he said, “death shall not come near, 

He shall be, reprieved.” 

He touched her arm, “He shall not die, 

For him I know a cure, 

Death will pass him by, 

I know it, very sure. 

Very short time it will take 
This sickness of his to dispel, 

This I am doing for your sake, 

For I know you love him well. 

Else would I leave him to his fate, 

For of this, take heed, 

On earth, in hell, there is no other hate 
Can this hate of mine exceed. 

In short time the sick man got well 
And was a vigorous man again, 

And he would often tell 

How he was freed from pain. 


157 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Again the Indian and the woman met, 

She who had been heart of his heart, 

The woman who still was yet 
His soul’s dearest living part. 

She said, “It was a very noble deed 
To save one you hated so, 

But of hatred there is no need 
If you could only know. 

He is the dearest friend my parents had, 

Now from me both are gon^, 

Could you be friends with him I would be glad, 
He is the kindest friend I have known. 

You have risen high above my plane 
And honor you have gained, 

The words you said were not vain 
Great nobleness you have attained. 

Of one thing I would be sure, 

That my heart may be at peace, 

Tell me, wull your love endure 

Till life and death have ceased?” 

“Though heaven and earth pass away, 

Yet shall my love remain, 

And by its strength and power to stay 
Build heaven and earth again.” 

“If your suit you will renew 
Then I will answer ‘yes’ 

A love so strong and true 
God will surely bless.” 

He ansiwered “You have made heaven of earth, 
With you earth is heaven to me, 

And everything on earth of worth 
Is worth far more with thee.” 

They married, lived, long and did much good 
But they did not know, 

That the purest of Indian blood 
In veins of their children flow. 


158 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Her foster parents never told the tale 
Of the little Indian child, 

Who though reared within the city’s pale 
Still dearly loved the wild. 


EVERY DAY HEROES 

This is not a song of blood-stained fields of glory 
And triumphs of martial men, 

Or of heroes of ancient story 

That lived the devil knows when. 

But of heroines and of heroes 
That we meet every day, 

Doing noble deeds that nobody knows 
And are of common clay. 

We find them dwelling in humble homes 
As well as in mansions fair 
Wherever need of their service comes 
They are always there. 

They toil in factory and in mine, 

Indeed they are everywhere, 

With noble courage and divine, 

Willing to do and dare. 

Silent as to their meeds, 

The self-sacrificing kind, 

Doing noble, generous deeds 
To which the world is blind. 

For them sings no trump of fame 
As when warrior deeds are done, 

How shall the world acclaim 
Heroic deeds unknown. 

Angelic they are and yet human 
And maybe of manner mild, 

In their ranks or man and woman 
And even the little child. 


159 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE PICTURE ROCKS 

The Indian’s heart was heavy as lead; 

The Indian’s soul was sore, 

Hope in the Indian’s heart was dead, 

These were his hunting grounds no more. 

The medicine man stood with unbraided locks 
Of his dark, wnnd-tossed hair, 

And dented upon the rocks 

The pictures of things that were. 

He knew his people were following a trail 
That tribes had trod before; 

That no struggle would avail; 

They could return no more. 

So he stood with unbraided locks 
Of his dark, wind-blown hair, 

And dented upon the rocks 

A memorial to things that were. 

At the time when his Messiah shall come 
And the Indian possess his own again, 

When nowhere shall be a paleface home 
In the land of hill and plain. 

The children shall see the sign of their father’s hand 
And shall know their father’s thought, 

And they will dearly love the land 
For which their fathers fought. 

He gathered and braided the locks 
Of his long, wind-flung hair; 

His face impassive as the native rocks, 

In his heart undying despair. 

But he had graven on the rocks 

The pictures of things that were, 

Animals of the plain and the beaver, the bear and the fox, 
And the medicine man with the braided hair. 


160 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


SONG OF THE ARROW 

An Indian warrior was making arrows and thus I heard him 
sing, 

“I will give thee soul, my arrow, thou wilt he a living thing, 
I have fashioned thy head, my arrow, of flint from the mountain 
side 

And fashioned thee so carefully with all a warrior’s pride; 

I have made to thee, my arrow, a shaft straight and long 
And bound it with sinews that are both tough and strong; 

I have crowned thee, my arrow, with the plumes of bird 
To behold thee in thy beauty, my warrior soul is stirred. 

Fly swift and straight, my arrow, I have given to thee thy wing, 
Bite deep, Oh, my arrow, I have given to thee thy sting; 
Sing triumphant, Oh my arrow, the foe will tremble to hear thee 
sing; 

Speed, speed, my arrow, Death rides on thy wing. 

When thou strike’st, my arrow, strike deep into a vital part, 
When thou drink’st an enemy’s blood, drink it from his heart, 
I made thee for war, my arrow, when thou’rt in the fight, 

I will give thee speed, my arrow, with all my impassioned 
might. 

I will give thee strength, my arrow, with all my burning hate, 
And thou shalt be ray arrow, a messenger of fate.” 


SONG OF THE INDIAN BRAVE 

’Tis the voice of the winds, the woods and the waters 
Singing their song unto me. 

’Tis the song they sung to our fathers 
Bidding their children be free. 

The voice of the winds and the waters; 

The voice of the stream and the tree, 

Singing to our sons and our daughters, 

Bidding their children be free. 

The songs sung where the war spirit rages 
Songs of the true and the brave, 

Songs that the spirit of freedom engages, 

Were never the songs of a slave. 

The songs of heroes and sages, 

Songs sung from sea unto sea, 

The songs that come from the far-away ages, 

Are ever the songs of the free. 

161 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


SAGINAW 

Oneetesah, Oneetesah of Sagwenhah, beware! 

He is a fickle man and will leave tliee in despair; 

Believe not wliat the serpent says, he has a forked tongue, 

Go not in the serpent’s way, thou art far too young; 

Haste thee away when the serpent sings; list not to the serpent’s 
song; 

Cold, cold is the serpent’s heart, he will do thee wrong. 

Trust not in him of the faithless heart and broken vow; 

Walk not with him by the singing wateir or beneath the leafy 
bough. 

Trust not to his false heart, there is no honor there, 

He has hung clouds over other maids and left them in despair; 

My daughter, Oh, my daughter, be thou wise and strong; 

Go thou not with Sagwenhah, he will do thee wrong. 

She heeded not her mother’s word nor of Sagwenhah believed ill 
intent; 

She followed the wish of her own heart and in the path of 
sorrow went. 

She walked with him by the water and sat with him beneath the 
bough, 

And listened to every word and believed in every vow; 

Then he went to far-off hunting grounds nor did he soon return; 
The maid who trusted him felt on her cheek the dark flush 
burn. 

Women of the tribe dropped hints that were vague and dark, 
And she endured galling sneers and some would insultingly 
remark, 

“Dwells she with her mother still? Has not her husband come? 
’Tis fit the first child be born in her husband’s home.” 

As moons waxed and waned their manner grew more bold, 

And spoke of a maid who was not a maid—her husband’s 
name untold. 

They would say, “Sagwenhah is a hunter cunning with the game, 
But never brought to woman’s home anything but shame.” 

They would ask Oneetesah “When will thy husband to thee 
return ? 

Will he be here to welcome when thy son is bom? 

Perhaps he cares not to welcome even the coming of a son 

While there are maids in other tribes whose favors may be 
won; 

This husband of thine, he cometh not, where now wanders he? 
Has he not provided a lodge, a dwelling for thy son and thee? 


162 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Is he not here to love thee, to shield thee from hunger and from 
harm? 

Has he not provided fur of beaver to keep thee and thy infant 
warm? 

This husband of thine, is his name yet still unknown? 

What cared the eagle or the serpent for the silly little fawn! 
To win him back why does not thou thy prettiest raiment don?” 
But a maid has lost her charm when her brightest jewel is 
gone. 

W!hat days and nights of misery by Oneetesah were passed, 
And on her were contempt and biting insult cast, 

At last she fled from their taunts and scorn, 

And lived among the dark pine woods where her son was 
born. 

She sought a canyon dark and deep, unknown to noonday glow, 
Where between rocky walls the cold dark waters flow. 

In such a place the sullen spirits of a darksomje world lurk in 
their caverns deep, 

And the drear spirits of the place by the chill waters weep. 
Here it was her son was born, she named him Sa-gin-aw, 

For gloom was on her heart and little light she saw. 

Years passed, he grew straight and tall like his father’s form, 
But in his eyes was a sombre cloud like that of gathering 
storm, 

She taught him how to use the bow and how to wield the spear, 
She trained him to be fleet of foot and to know no fear. 

He was brave, he was quick and strong and unknown to him 
alarm, 

The savage bear and catamount fell beneath his arm. 

One day he asked his mother how they came to dwell 
In such a gloomy place where sunlight scarcely fell; 

If there were other people living among the woods, 

Besides the dark and sullen spirits of the sombre deeps and 
floods; 

He must know the reason why; he would not be denied, 

Though Oneetesah, from him fain the truth would hide. 
Vainly she endeavored his questions to turn aside, 

As he persisted still then his insistence she would chide. 
Nor would he desist no matter how she might scold; 

He gave her no rest until all the tale was told. 

In his heart opened founts of tenderness, from that day he loved 
her more, 

But brooded over insults and injuries that his mother bore. 


163 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPEERDER 


Ranging through the woods afar, seeking for the game, 

He found hunting grounds where other hunters came. 

One day he saw a buck of enormous size, and straight his ar¬ 
row sent 

And down to the grass the noble creature went; 

Saginaw found it dead, two arrows were sticking there, 

Each had reached the heart, each had done its share. 

Forth a hunter stepped, a warrior of uncommon size, 

He was cast in stalwart mold and had fiercely flashing eyes. 
He said “To Tawanamot belongs the hunter’s game, 

The arrow in the heart shall justify the claim.” 

“Not so,” said Saginaw, “My arrow shall claim its part, 

Though shot from the farther side yet it reached the heart.” 

“Tawanamot with no hunter will divide, he the meat will take, 
When Tawanamot’s voice is heard let others in silence quake.” 
Saginaw said, “To him who lifts and carries it shall be the 
prize.” 

Then Tawanamot laid hold of it and to lift it many times he 
tries, 

Sweating and panting, reluctantly ihe gave it up at length, 

The beast was huge and heavy and much beyond his strength. 
Saginaw said mockingly, “It is not burden for a child, 

Some woodland sprite has thee of thy strength beguiled.” 
Tawanamot replied, “I doubt not thou will carry it with ease, 
’Tis thine for the lifting, Slender reed, take it if thou please.” 
While Tawanamot was speaking with jibing tongue 

Saginaw lifted it and up to his shoulders the deer he swung. 

When Tawanamot saw it great was his surprise, 

The hot anger burned in his heart and flashed from his eyes; 
With ready knife and murderous thought toward Saginaw he 
made a bound. 

Saginaw threw the deer on him and brought him to the 
ground, 

Where he lay bruised and breathless from the shock; 

Then Saginaw reached down and grasped him by the lock. 
The lock that is the warrior’s pride; the warrior’s pride and 
boast, 

To them is nothing left on earth if that one lock be lost. 
“Tawanamot,” said Saginaw, “With thee a bargain I will make, 
Thou take the meat, Saginaw Tawanamot’s scalp will take, 

But to take it as thou art seems to me most unfair.” 

Then from beneath the deer he dragged him by the hair. 
“Tawanamot I did not like thy words, thy ways I don’t admire, 
To try my skill in battle is what I most desire; 


164 




BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Take thy weapons, Tawanamot, and meet me now in fight, 

One of thy stalwart build should prove a man of might.” 
Tawanamot was suffering sore and could scarcely stand 
Nor could he hold a weapon in his nerveless hand. 

“Tawanamot” spoke Saginaw, “I did not seek to do thee ill. 

’Twas thou who had ill intent, it was thou who sought to kill; 
I will carry thee to thy brethren’s lodges if thou be so inclined, 
And may thou acquire greater strength, also a nobler mind.” 
H*e lifted him to shoulders and bore him stoutly on, 

But many braves surrounded him before ten bow shots he 
had gone. 

“Ho! Stranger, Chief, whither carries thou our brother Tawan¬ 
amot?” 

Stranger, who art thou? Whence art thou? We know thee 
not, 

What ails Tawanamot? Has our brother met a foe? 

Has he been in fight? Has he received a fatal blow?” 

“I carry Tawanamot to his brethren’s lodges that he may have 
care, 

Eyes may be looking for Tawanamot among the lodges there; 
He is hurt, but he will live, of that have no fear, 

He was not hurt by enemy’s hand, on him fell a deer; 

If ye know me not then to you be it known I am Saginaw, 

I come from among the piney woods, where dark waters 
swiftly flow. 

“Oh!” cried one, “Do deer fall from clouds, that they fall on 
men? 

No stranger story ever was told to ears of Akkosen.” 
“Saginaw, tell to us another tale to match with that, 

The deer that fell on Tawanamot, Was it not a bat?” 

“Ask of Tawanamot the truth if you think I have told a lie, 

But restrain thy tongue, Akkosen, lest it lead thee on to die.” 

Then an old man spoke whose hair was very white, 

He was tall and straight and graceful to the sight; 

“Let not my young men waste their breath nor vaunt the idle 
word, 

Truly has spoken Saginaw, it is the truth we have heard; 
Saginaw, thou hast spoken well thy words we believe them all, 
I know the deer fell on Tawanamot, I saw it fall; 

The young men will carry their injured brother to his home 
Where loving hearts and eager eyes are watching for him to 
come; 


165 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


To our lodges, to our hearths, Saginaw, we ask of thee to go, 

Where grateful hearts and brightening eyes will welcome 
Saginaw. 

Matakand has said it, my people will open their arms to thee, 
Saginaw will be our honored guest, no brother more beloved 
than he. 

“I will go,” said Saginaw, “but not with empty hand, 

I will take with me the deer to lodges of Matakand.” 

To the village of Matakand the friendly party went; 

From waxing to waning moon a festive time they spent; 
Honored guest was Saginaw, on him bright eyes shone; 

Handsome he was, his skill and strength were surpassed 
by none. 

Then spoke Matakand, “If thou hast the battle thirst, fame 
may be won, 

Our foes are on the warpath now and will be here before 
another sun. 

If thou wilt the battle try and thy strength with ours combine 
No boon thou shalt ask but surely shall be thine.” 

“Yes, I will the battle try and my strength with yours combine, 

For my brethren’s foes are surely foes of mine.” 

Keen eyes watched the foe’s approach, alert ears heard their 
stealthy tread, 

They were led by Bounding Wolf, a chief who made the 
warpath red. 

He was a chief of mighty strength, no other arm could bend the 
bow he bent; 

Never half so far from other bows were any arrows sent. 

When the night was at the darkest hour then was the fight begun, 
And many braves had fallen before the coming of the sun; 
Backward was driven the foe, their vigor began to wane, 

But Bounding Wolf rallied them and led to the fight again. 
Bounding Wolf encountered Saginaw, who matched him well, 

His skill with weapons few warriors could excel, 

But in the crowd of striving braves they were forced apart; 
Bounding Wolf felt a little fear creeping to his heart. 

He knew that his giant strength against Saginaw would be of > 
no avail; 

He had felt like a summer breeze against a winter gale. 

At a distance he drew his strong bow and let an arrow fly, 

And watched to see it strike Saginaw between the head and 
thigh, 

Saginaw with watchful eye saw its flight and stepped aside, 

Had that arrow struck him he surely would have died. 


166 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


It struck a tree with tremendous force and buried deep its head; 

Scarce had it ceased quivering ere Bounding Wolf was dead. 
From the bow of Saginaw a hard driven arrow sped; 

Soon in the heart’s blood of Bounding Wolf its wing was all 
red. 

Then the braves of Matakand raised their fierce war yell, 

With hope exultant in their hearts on the foe they fell; 
Many were taken captive, many more were slain; 

The braves of Bounding Wolf would never be feared again. 

A foe was seen fleeing fast, a warrior tall and slim; 

Saginaw had seen him in battle and well had noted him, 
An d now he marked his slender form as with wonderful speed 
he fled; 

He had a mind to capture him and in swift pursuit he sped, 
And chased him twenty bow shots long before he nearer drew, 
The fugitive to aid his flight behind his weapons threw, 

Never was ranner of mortal race more swift than Saginaw; 

He was fleet of foot and could outrun the fleeing doe. 

Soon he seized his quarry and threw him to the ground, 

And quickly behind him his captive’s arms he bound; 

When they reached the village Saginaw saw the wondering gaze. 
For the people were looking on them in very great amaze. 
Matakand asked of the captive, “WJio are thou so like to Sagi¬ 
naw? 

Save that thou art older, two men more alike we never saw. 
Whence this great speed which thou but now did’st show? 

Wo knew not there was another who could outrun the fleeing 
doe?” 


The captive answered “I am Sagwenhah, I am the light of heart, 
Of the speed of all speedy things I was given a part; 

As the fleetness of my father was, such fleetness is mine. 

This fleetness we inherit from Unkatooma’s line.” 

Saginaw spoke, “This captive I will take, this shall be boon of 
mine. 

He shall go to brighten other eyes among the gloom of pine. 
My mother’s heart is calling me, no longer must I delay, 

I will take the captive now and speed us on the way.” 
Through unfrequented forest paths Saginaw* urged him on, 
On through dusky groves where sunlight scarcely shone, 
Till on the ear was borne the sound of rushing waterfall; 

Then Saginaw raised his voice in cry of a wild bird call, 
An answering call was soon returned from out the dusky wood 
And soon beside the rifted rock the eager mother stood. 


167 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPH\ERDER 


Her eyes were bright and she was tall and stately as a queen, 
Graceful as the red deer fawn and comely to be seen, 

She was beautiful in form and face agreeable to the sight, 
And her bright dark eyes shone with entrancing light. 

Sagwenhah, impressionable to woman’s charms quickly was en¬ 
slaved, 

Never was such beauty seen since first above the earth stately 
pine trees waved. 

‘‘Oh, what creature is this in woman’s form with beauty so 
endowed, 

Is it a spirit come to earth from home beyond the cloud?” 
“’Tis a shadow of what thou cast away in years when thou wert 
young, 

A memory of other days when thou used the serpent’s tongue, 
Her name was Oneetesah when she was a trusting maid; 

By one of serpent brood to sorrow she was betrayed, 

And I have brought thee captive here to look on her again, 

At the torture stake I’ll count to thee her hours of pain.” 
Then Sagwenhah said to Oneetesah “My wigwam is empty still, 
Oneetesah, it is open for thee to enter, Oh, beloved, if thou 
will. 

To kindle the fire of love that the light of happiness may glow 
On the hearth that has been the home of solitude and woe.” 
She replied “The fire that warmed thy father’s line untended 
shall die, 

Instead of fire on thy hearth shall cold ashes lie.” 

Saginaw graspd his arm “Enough, another word there is no 
need to speak, 

The fount is cold where for warmth you seek, 

For thee, in that heart there will no love awake, 

Instead of love and home, for thee, the torture and the stake.” 
“Saginaw, my son, would’st thy father by torture slay? 

By fire’s sharp fang would’st thou wear my life away? 

Is it fitting that by hand of son the father’s blood should flow? 

Such deed could bring thee naught but a never dying woe.” 
“The gloomy life of Saginaw has never known of joy, 

Nor could it yet more dismal be if I did thee destroy; 

Look on that dark river that flows between spray-wet rocky 
walls— 

Never on its waters the cheering glint of sunbeam falls; 
Never have I seen sunlight or moonlight on it shine, 

’Tis a symbol of the joylessness of my mother’s life and mine. 
See’st thou that tree that across the water leans? 

I will bind thee there till thy soul shall know all that dark¬ 
ness means.” 


168 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


He bound him to under side of the tree, face downward to the 
stream, 

Where among the slimy rocks racing foam flakes ream, 

But when the midnight darkness all the woodlands steep 
When the senses ofi Saginaw all were locked in sleep, 

Then silently Oneetesah stole out to set him free, 

In darkness, with groping hand, she unbound him from the 
tree 

Along its. trunk she drew him to the damp slippery rock, 

The rock trembled beneath the foot to the rushing water’s shock, 
She dragged him farther back and bade him haste away, 

For he must be far agone before coming of the day. 

Saginaw was dreaming and beheld his captive gone 
And dreamed he must be up to follow him at rising of the sun; 
Saginaw awoke the dream was on his mind, he the truth must 
know; 

He arose and hastened to the river side to see if it were so. 

In the morning he told his mother he was going to hunt the bear, 
But it was the trail of Sagwenhah that he sought with care, 
Finding it he followed it till the coming of the night 

When he lay down' to wait for the coming of the light, 

He knew by signs plain to the hunter’s eye he would overtake 
him soon, 

And saw him in the distance er the sun had marked the noon; 
Saginaw did not haste to take him then, he was not so inclined, 
But keeping out of sight he followed noiselessly behind; 
When the smoke of lodges rose before them not far away, 
Then he put forth his hand the fugitive’s steps to stay, 

And over the backward path he took him without delay. 

Onward through the forest gloom he held his certain way 
Until in sunless gorge among tumbled rocks he stood 
Where the dark river rolled its swiftly rushing flood. 

“Sagwenhah, see’st thou the waters flowing dark and cold? 
Sullen spirits of those dismal deeps shall keep thee in their hold, 
From awakening memories will come to thee the bitter pang 
More lasting and sharper far than fires red fang, 

The evil that from thy selfish heart thou hast caused to flow 
Thou sbalt witness for all time, this, is the eternal law; 

And cnanged thou from human form, yet shall thy heart re¬ 
main 

Invisible to human eyes thou must bear the human pain.” 

Changed to a cold black rock the symbol of despair, 

Amid that dark cold rushing flood Sagwenhah is there; 

He is living yet though changed to cold dark stone, 


169 




MU 8 IN OS OF A 8HEEPHERDER 


You can hear his sobbing breath, you can hear him sigh and 
moan. 

You can hear his despairing cry and hear the smothered groan, 
You can see his trickling tears where the cold spray is thrown, 
You can see darksome forms that in the water lie, 

Dread spirits of an underworld appearing fitfully to the eye. 
And those grim spirits of the deep will keep him in their hold 
Until by human lips Earth’s last tale is told. 


FUNERAL SONG OF OONAWASSA 

Oonawassa! Oonawassa! He is not dead, he is not dead, 
The brave can never die. 

His body is laid where the warrior bled, 

His spirit faces the western sky; 

Away to the sunset land the hunter’s, soul shall roam 
Bright is the sunset land; it is the spirit’s home. 

Oonawassa, Oonawassa, rest warrior, rest; 

The place is rest is thine. 

Over thy untroubled breast 
Thy bright stars will shine. 

Sleep, warrior, sleep, soothed by the sweet scent of the pine, 
Oh, the fragrance of the pine. 

Rest, chieftain, rest. Thy mother earth thy pillow; 

Rest, warrior, great thy deeds have been 
And we will wear the willow 
And keep thy memory green; 

Sleep warrior, lulled by the murmuring of the pine, 

Oh, the singing of the pine. 

Oonawassa, our brother, sleep, Oh, brother sleep; 

No fear shall haunt the brave, 

Brethren over thee a faithful watch shall keep. 

Thy brethren watch and guard thy grave. 

Hie is not dead, he sleeps, lulled by the singing of the pine, 
Oh, the music of the pine! 


170 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


WAHNANOO. 

She wandered by the water, 

That mirrored skies of blue, 

She was Kawhahwan’s daughter, 

The beautiful Wahnanoo. 

As a dream fades from the mind, 

So she vanished and was gone; 

No trail or trace was left behind 

When she passed to the unknown. 

No sign of her where grass and willows wave 
And the scent of flowers is sweet, 

Nor on the shining sand the waters lave 
As the tiny wavelets beat. 

Day and night for long they sought her, 

But they sought for her in vain, 

Lost was Kawhahwan’s daughter, 

They never saw her again. 

By maid and brave and hoary sire 
Oft is the wonderful story told 
As Indians gather ’round the fire 
When winter nights are cold. 

How the spirit of the lake 
Laid on her a magic spell, 

So that he might her in secret take 
From those who loved her well. 

And hushed children listen to their words 
As they tell how she did not die, 

But that among the water birds 
They sometimes see her fly. 

With plumage more bright and beautiful 
Than ever bird has worn, 

As brilliant as the sunbeam 
On the dew-drop in the mom. 


171 



MUSINGS OF A SEEEPHERDER 


MANASSAGWA AND CHANEOCHIOKEN 

The Southwind blew softly over the prairie land 

And buds awakened to the touch of Spring’s gentle hand; 

Unnumbered flowers spread their charm unto the breeze of morn, 
Thus to Nature’s heart the summer joy was bom. 

Manassagwa sat in silence with darkly frowning brow, 

To his soul his sullen heart would no joy allow*; 

Around him light-hearted children ran and played about. 

The air rang with mirthful laugh and joyous shout. 

But brooding in gloomy mood the bright hours he spent 

And within his savage heart grew the restless worm of dis¬ 
content. 

There passed a sprightly brave, bright of eye and smooth of 
cheek, 

To Manassagwa in light-hearted manner of youth he was 
heard to speak. 

“The sun shines bright, the world is light, Nature is smiling now, 
Sounds of gladness fill the air, yet O’, Chief, what clouds 
thy brow?” 

Slowly the chief made reply, “Let not my words fall idly to the 
ground 

But give heed to them and ponder well, they are not empty 
sound, 

Ye young men of careless hearts, unaccustomed are your minds 
to thought 

Thinking of the past, the present and future to my brow this 
cloud has brought 

What will be the Indian’s lot in time that is to come? 

In all the wide land that once was ours he will have no home. 

Though ye dwell on the prairie land, ye children of the Cree, 
Know ye, time was when your fathers dwelt beneath the forest 
tree. 

Have ye not heard toward the rising sun dwelt the Ojibbeway? 
They are our brethren, of the same fathers, of the same blood 
are they. 

Have ye not heard of Lenni Lenape who was famed for warlike 
sons? 

Brave the blood of the Lenni Lenape, in veins of Cree it rims. 

Have ye heard of the great tree of Algonquin, stateliest of the 
wood 

That grew in ages past and withstood the storm and flood? 

Seed from the branches of Algonquin far over the earth was 
flung. 


172 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


From seeds of the great Algonquin unnumbered tribes have 
sprung. 

Now the great tree is broken and the branches have fallen in 
decay 

And the glory of the red race from our land has passed away. 

Where are the wide forests that grew out to meet the unresting 
sea? 

Where those tribes who dwelt by the sounding waters? They 
are not, they have ceased to be. 

Swept away by the paleface, that was their fate, ours will be the 
same, 

Shall our sun set in the blaze of battle’s glory or black cloud 
of shame? 

The bark canoe has ceased to glide over the water’s glassy breast, 

No more to wonted coverts the moose and deer return to rest. 

On the tall trees the eagle ceased to build her lofty nest 

As the tread of the heavy foot came crashing to the west. 

Onward still, unchecked, the hungry paleface came, 

Blighting all the forest land and devouring it in flame. 

Westward rolled the tide of strangers like the waves of a mighty 
sea, 

Sweeping over our hunting grounds; killing game in their blood¬ 
thirsty glee. 

Onward still he held his way, his path marked by fire and blood, 

Till upon the western shore the covetous stranger stood. 

Red men had hunted by forest and plain, the earth then teemed 
with game 

But war and want spread over the land when the paleface 
came. 

Where are the countless herds of buffalo that on the plains have 
fed? 

Where are the herds, of elk and deer? They come no more, 
the hunter’s joy is dead. 

The buffalo, the deer, the antelope. Why are they not here today ? 

The strong hand of the white man has swept them away. 

Oh, the fire of the white man! Deadly was its breath. 

The lead of the white man made wide the path of death. 

Wonder not that my words are hot, or that my heart should bum. 

When I see children of our race begging from those nature 
bids us spurn. 

Abject children of a dying race, is all your manhood dead? 

Palefaces say ‘See how good we are! Were it not for us the 
Indian would not be fed.’ 

Black is the lie, words more false no tongue has ever told. 


173 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Before the paleface came the red man had abundance un¬ 
bought by gold. 

They say to us, ‘You sold your land! Why had we need to sell 
The land for which our fathers fought and our sons and 
brethren fell ? 

The heavy foot was on our breasts, the strong hand held us by 
the throat 

With the long knives at our hearts to the bargain we were 
brought, 

’Tis better to die than live a pauper race in whom manhood is 
dead, 

Who thinks not so in his heart, be shame upon his head. 

To conquerors let cowards kneel and beg, ’tis fitting for the slave; 
Let the gory sod and silent grave be the portion of the brave.” 

Then spoke Chaneochioken and he spoke soft and slow, 

“Was it so much better then, in the time of long ago? 

Was there not lurking in woodland shadows many a merciless 
foe? 

Was not blood stains on the meadows in those days of long 
ago? 

Whenever strangers chanced to meet 
Was it not meeting a mortal foe? 

When the scent of blood was sweet 
In those times of long ago? 

Came not the hunger spirit walking 
Over dreary wastes of snow? 

Came not the hunger fever stalking 
Through the camps of long ago? 

Were not women and children waiting, waiting for the hunter 
with the game? 

Hungry, watching, watching, waiting for him who never came? 

Was not the gaunt wolf unrelenting, following him whose steps 
were slow, 

Till weary, weak and fainting he fell among the snow? 

While the hunger fever burned, while the hunger worm gnawed, 
Then the father and mother mourned and through the camp 
gaunt hunger strode, 

And the silence was unbroken except perchance when someone 
sighed, 

Still no word was spoken as one by one they drooped and died. 


174 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Bravely they could face a human foe, or danger that from ani¬ 
mals might betide, 

But those days and nights of the dread hunger woe—That 
was the time they died. 

If life was so good or better then, that I do not know, 

But there was war and want ’mong men, in the days of long 
ago.” 


SUSIE 

There was a mortgage on the old homestead 
And there debts beside, 

And soon if they were not paid 

In the home the family could not abide. 

Susie resolved her living she would earn 
And to bring fortune in her reach, 

Into a world cold and stem 
She went forth to teach. 

And there was many a heartache 
And the forcing of many a smile, 

There were so many knocks to take 
Till it hardly seemed worth while. 

Still she strove for better, 

Papa and Mamma were anxious at home, 

Anxiously awaiting for the letter 
And tidings that should come. 

Temptations there were to sinning 
And very much to annoy; 

The drudgery of winning 
Brought a bitter joy. 

When her heart was nearest breaking 
She wore her gayest smile, 

Her purpose never forsaking, 

She made it worth the while. 

There is no mortgage on the old homestead, 

The family are living there, 

And all their debts are paid, 

Papa and mamma are a proud and happy pair. 


175 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE UNWELCOMED RETURN 

Sarcee braves had met the foe, 

They had struggled long and hard, 

Their best braves were laid low— 

Men who had long been battle scarred. 

Exultant were the braves of Cree 
Yet still they sought around 

A Sarcee had broken free, 

He had not yet been found. 

The Sarcee was speeding fast 

Far southward over a rolling plain; 

Ah! if but his strength would last 
To see his father’s lodge again. 

And he was very young, 

Not yet had manhood’s years attained, 

Had not a song of triumph sung 
Nor honor yet had gained. 

When he had seen his brethren fall 
By numbers hardly pressed, 

What wonder he obeyed Nature’s call 
Instead of dying with the rest. 

The fugitive, (he was Assaquam) 

Looked in his father’s face; 

The face bore a look of stony calm 
But of a father’s love no trace. 

The father a snow-white haired old man 
Had won a warrior’s fame; 

His name was M,ahtawan, 

Of pure Sarcee blood he came. 

Stern and erect the father stood. 

He said, “Of Sarcee blood I am, 

I know none of Sarcee blood 
Bears name of Assaquam. 

What battle blows hast thou dealt? 

On thee I see no battle mark, 

I see no trophy at thy belt, 

I feel it growing dark. 


176 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


What battle strokes hast thou felt? 

On thee no wounds I find, 

There is no trophy at thy belt 
Tell me, I am growing blind. 

Why comest thou where thou art spurned? 

Why not by spirit eyes on spirit path are thy footprints seen? 
If thou never had’st returned 

We had known what the worst had been. 

We had loved thee had’t thou done a warrior’s part, 

And fallen before the Cree, 

But there is no home for coward heart 
In lodges of Sarcee. 

Thy place is where the earth is dank and damp 
No Sarcee ever from foe did flee; 

Go hide in the slimy swamp; 

We know no more of thee.” 


IF 

If I could but write as some poets have wrote 
Or sing as some bards have sung, 

If the thoughts born in my mind could to the surface be brought 
To flow from an eloquent tongue; 

If I could my thoughts and feelings declare 
As some authors their stories have told, 

Such gift I would prize greater by far 
Than richest treasures of gold. 

But the thoughts must die unexpressed; 

Though striving hard to be known , 

And feelings remain lock’d in my breast 
To be just for one heart alone. 

And the world be no better for what I may think 
Or tenderer for what I may feel, 

And feeling and thought in oblivion may sink 
That I have not the power to reveal. 

For my words and language are scant, 

Untutored, unlearned and crude, 

Of something I feel woefully a want 
That is ever persistent and rude; 

But someone will arise 

With genius as bright as a sun, 

Who in language clever and wise 

Will do what I fain would have done. 

177 




MU SIN a 8 OF A SHEEPHFRDER 


WOO WANG A AND WAHWONEE. 

It was the time of opening flowers 
When the mating call is heard, 

And trilling from bosky bowers 
Comes the wooing song of bird. 

As the sun’s early plumes up flung 
Against the morning sky, 

Then a song Woowanga sung 

As he saw the pale starlight die. 

Not his the deep harsh voice of warriors’ throats 
That is heard where angry bowstrings twang 
But as soft and sweet his notes 
As ever lover sang. 

He sang the morning dews among 
While birds poured forth their glee, 

But never bird sang sweeter song 
To ears of Wahwonee. 

And his heart grew more warm 
And his song grew more tender 
As he saw the maiden’s form 
So graceful and so slender. 

Woowanga and Wahwonee 
Oft met in the early dawn 
Happy was she and happy was he, 

Their hearts beat as one. 

But ever in woodland shades, 

Was danger lurking still, 

And through the forest glades 
Warriors came to kill. 

In the forest Woowanga hunted game, 

He was keen and strong 
To him hostile warriors came 
A fierce and painted throng. 

Cried they, “Woowanga, thy hunting is done 
Now thy heart shall quail, 

Long ere setting of the sun 

Thy feet will strike the Spirit trail.” 


178 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


He answered, “Not now my heart will quail, 
Nor is my hunting done,, 

Many feet will strike the Spirit trail 
Ere setting of the sun.” 

Then rang out the battle call 
And in many a ferny dell 
And by many a mossy bole 
Wounded warriors fell. 

But still on Woowanga’s steps 
The wanton warwolves go, 

Though many a deadly arrow slips 
From the hunter’s bow. 

Around him foes upsprang 

The angry war whoop shrills, 

And far the echoes rang 
Along the rugged hills. 

Wahwonee heard that sound 

She thought of one to her so dear, 

It set her heart abound 

And quickened every fear. 

She cried, “There are enemies in the wood 
I hear the war whoop shrilling 
I hear the lusting cry of blood 

As when war wolves are killing. 

Today Woowanga hunts that way, 

I fear with enemies he has met, 

And war-wolves are out to slay 
I fear he is beset.” 

She sped away through the forest land 
So fearful was her haste, 

She did not wait for rescuing band, 

So madly she raced. 

Meanwhile Woowanga fought unequal fight 
He could not hold out long, 

At the time of fading light 

Wahwonee heard his death song. 

In his hand he held a broken bow 

There was a deep gash in his head, 
Before him was a relentless foe 
And his last arrow was sped. 


179 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


He leaned against an aspen tree, 

Waliwonee found him there, 

Red drops fell fast and free 

From the wounded hunter’s hair. 

For herself she had no fear 
She his shield would be 
She would stop that hurling spear, 

Such was the love of Wahwonee. 

Alas! that her effort should fail 

Breast to breast the spear pinned them then. 
Never was a sadder tale 
Told of warring men. 

The onsweep of rescuing braves 
Just then reached the spot, 

Wild the war spirit raves 

Anger and hate burned hot. 

Down amid the darkening wood 
Sad that such tale should be, 

They could not stanch the crinison flood 
That drained from Wahwonee. 

Woowanga’s heart ceased to beat, 

Passed his last fluttering breath, 

He took the path of spirit feet, 

The path beyond of death. 

Beyond where mountains stand 

And the sun goes down to the seas 
Away, away through the shadow land 
Went Woowanga and Wahwonee. 

On the land sunshine or shadow may lie 
And streamers spread over the sea, 

Such love as that will never die 
It lives with Wahwonee. 

Their Spirits tread the forest aisles 
To the song of stream and tree, 

And ever the great Wahcondah smiles 
On the love of Wahwonee. 


180 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


SAKANO AND OWIANEE 

Sakano was a mighty chief of long line of chieftains bred; 

But the Great Spirit’s anger taught his heart to dread; 

He took the daughter of Tahkahsah to dwell in his teepee 

In the opening flower of youth, just twelve years old was 
she; 

Nequasowansema had been two years a brave, 

His heart had gone to Owanee but no return she gave. 

To see her in Sakano’s lodge bitter was his pain. 

It seemed as though coals of fire were burning in his brain. 
He met her one day in the wood as she for faggots sought 
And told her of his love which sad misfortune brought; 
The jealous Sakano was passing near and the ill-fated ones he 
saw, 

To them he hastened silently over the new fallen snow. 
Sakano was a hasty man, no bounds his anger knew, 

No thought restrained his hand and swift his weapon slew. 
Like panther leaping on his prey on the young brave he sprung 
And had brained him before a cry fell from his tongue, 
Then with anger swelling in his heart he turned to Owanee 

“Thou shalt die, false one, no lodge! of mine will shelter thee.” 

He took her to that wind-swept knoll where stands that lonely 
pine; 

Hard as rock his heart was, he came of a heart-hearted line; 
He tore away her clothing that from frosty wind there no shield 
might be, 

Naked, then, with lariat he bound her to that lone pine tree. 
Sakano, the Flinty Heart, had no thought of mercy then; 

In him burned the madness that fills the brain of jealous men. 

The cruel North wind left his home in the far-off frozen sea, 
Keen the teeth of the North wind that drew the breath from 
Owanee. 

That day Indians saw the snow fall deep and clouds* darkly lower, 
Deep were piled the snowdrifts at the evening hour, 

But deeper and darker the gloom that settled in the heart of 
Sakano; 

Deep within his soul was welling the dark stream of woe. 

The Springtime came, the sun king shone bright on lengthened 
day; 

And over all the prairie land he chased the snow away. 
Streams that had lain in Winter’s clasp now in torrents rushed 
along, 


181 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


From budding boughs that overhung the banks was poured 
sweet Nature’s song. 

But no Springtime came with lightsome mood to that proud- 
hearted chief, 

Though sorrow was in his heart he spoke no word of grief; 
All through the summer time he had a look of proud disdain, 
Pride strove ’gainst fate but the striving was in vain. 
Though fain to deny, in his boding heart the truth he knew 

That though his soul was still untamed there was a power 
that could subdue. 

Again the glories of Autumn glowed; 

The soft blue haze was over the landscape lying, 

Yet still within his bosom gnawed the worm that knows no dying. 
The days of early winter came; 

The air was cool and clear; 

He with the rest pursued the game 
And killed the fattened deer. 

But it no pleasure gave, 

He cared no longer for the chase, 

The pain that was in his heart 
Showed in his furrowed face. 

But still never a word he spoke 
Of the burden of his sorrow; 

Every day heavier grew the yoke 

With promise of heavier still tomorrow. 

Then a voice was heard in the north; 

A voice of deep and sullen boom. 

A terrific storm came driving forth 
With bitter cold and gloom, 

Roaring through moaning forest maze 
Where leaves were dry and sear 
Whistling oven the billowy ways 
Of plains lone and drear. 

Then sang the Northwind a song to proud Sakano’s ear, 

And within his heart grew a dark and terrible fear; 

A still, still voice from the pine tree spoke to him of doom, 

And sang to him in the Northwind of everlasting gloom. 

“Who sings to Sakano in the Northwind? Who speaks in the 
voice of the tree? 

Whose tongue speaks threats to Sakano? Come, show thyself 
to me.” 


182 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


“Let tliine eyes be open, Sakano, Flint Heart, look thou and see. 
Look thou on these fleshless bones, the bones of Owanee. 

Thou left me on snowy winter day, bound to this lone tree; 
Next winter when the Northwind blows I will come for thee, 

At the flying of the snow, Flint Heart, he thou ready then 
To receive thy due—the fate that follows the steps of angry 
men.” 

When over the earth Springtime came with smiling days again, 
Silent and proud, he sought solitiude in his increasing pain. 

When summer came with her myriad scents he did not seem to 
know, 

But walked as though treading through deep and drifted 
snow. 

Silent as a shadow, through lonely ways he would pass, 

Seeing not leaves on the tree or flowers among the grass, 

But when over hill and plain the smoky haze was spread 

That spoke of dying summer days, the earth knew not his 
tread. 

In teepee he sat, he moved not, he spoke not, silent as a stone 
He listened not to his brethren now, so they left him quite 
alone, 

And he in solitude and silence sat, his head bowed in despair, 
Dreading a fate his soul could not face and his heart could 
never dare. 

The mighty stormwind blew as he had never blown before, 

His voice was like a herd of ocean bulls in deep angry roar; 

Like a terrific thundercrash his angry voice would swell 

On the hill by that lone pine he shrieked like mountain lion’s 
yell. 

And fiercely the hissing snow came rushing over the hill 

As his breath flew over the earth the founts of life grew chill; 

In his teepee Sakano crouched in terror as he heard him blow; 
He trembled, in his heart the fire of courage had ceased to 
glow. 

Now fearful the heart once the bravest that beat in warrior’s 
breast; 

Now lowly bowed the head that once had borne the proudest 
crest; 

There came an awful thunderclap, with violent hand aside the 
door was flung. 

Into the teepee darted the lightning’s forked, fiery tongue, 

As liquid fire gleamed on the snow with ghastly glare 

There was sounds as of a host of demons struggling in the air. 


183 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


“Sakano,” spoke a startling voice, “Look thou and see 

The victiim of thy hateful rage, Here is Owanee.” 

Haste thee, laggard, once thou wert not slow, make haste to fol¬ 
low me. 

Before him stood a spectral form, the bones of Owanee. 

Oh! the breath of that Nortliwind no mortal could withstand, 
Yet, facing it, he was forced through snowdrifts by one boney 
hand. 

His brethren found him next day lying by that lone pine was he, 
In his arms were clasped fleshless bones, the bones of Owanee. 

Away in the land of Night, beyond the sunset’s rim 
Wanders he now in darkness mocked by spirits grim. 

He sang no death song; faint was his heart to meet with death; 
There was heard no death chant as passed away his breath, 

Not with the bold, firm step of warrior or calm of the peaceful 
did he tread, 

But sneaking like a coyote in whose heart was dread 

He went not like a hero with a song of triumph on his tongue; 
Over shrinking soul and fearful heart there is no triumph 
sung. 

His place is with the howling wolves, his dwelling a darksome 
lair, 

In the bright day of the sunset land he shall have no share; 

With the wolves and foxes he must hide away at dawn, 

The sun will never shine for him, no place for him where 
Owanee has gone. 


NAHJOWEEJEE 

A warrior came forth from his home in the north 
And carried away the beautiful Nahjoweejee; 

An aged squaw told of what she saw 
That occurred by the Waboneetee. 

Of a warrior tall who towered high over all 
Mjen whom she ever did see, 

He seized Nahjoweejee and away he bore and seemed to feel her 
weight no more 

Than a hawk would a chicadee. 


184 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


There was many an angry man among the proud Piegan 
But none more stirred than Wanganwi, 

For it was said, so well he loved the maid 
That he for her sake would die. 

When the tale to him was told how a warrior bold 
Had stolen his love away, 

From description it seemed, and so he deemed 
That it was Wansingsay. 

“Was it Wansingsay? Then Wansingsay I’ll slay.” 

Thus spoke Wanganwi; 

“I’ll follow him home to where his brethren roam, 

Beneath the northern sky.” 

Then he turned to the north and bounded forth 
With the strength of a buffalo bull, 

He sped swift as the deer that is stricken with fear, 

But he was far behind the black-winged gull. 

He went in haste over lonely waste 
On the trail of Wansingsay, 

A messenger of fate, hurried by hate 
The robber chief .to slay. 

Through tangled grass and black morass 
He followed the trail alone 
Nor did he quail before northern gale 
That chilled him to the bone. 

Where aspens quake and by stream and lake 
He made his toilsome way, 

And over plains so drear where grass was sere, 

Where the northwinds play. 

Where the Aurora shakes over frozen lakes 
Her many colored lights, 

Where northwinds sting and sadly sing 
Through long arctic nights. 

He reached where wild sea waves through icy caves 
Beat on a desolate shore; 

Where ice packs dash and grind and crash 
In sullen, thunderous roar; 

The storm spirits wail in the angry gale 
From the troubled sea, 

But not sight or sound had he found 
Of his beloved Nahjoweejee. 


185 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Many a dreary barren be crossed, the air was cold with frost 
And winds were snow laden, 

But still he sought the northern lands, still he sought Indian 
bands, 

Till he found his beloved maiden. 

Then with her over the trail he sped, over the trail that south¬ 
ward led, 

He hurried her away. 

Southward for many suns, on the trail where the caribou runs 
Then he stopped to wait for Wansingsay. 

Nahjowjee urged him not to stay but southward to haste away, 
Till smoke of Piegan lodges could be seen, 

For they were far away with many a day 
And many a dreary night between. 

Said he “A Piegan chief must punish the thief, 

From him a trophy I must wrest, 

I must see his red blood flow and stain the snow, 

From out a wounded breast. 

Plumes I must pull from the Blackwinged Gull, 

To adorn my crest, 

His blood shall give them a stain that will remain 
In them I will be drest;” 

Wansingsay with many brethren came to regain his fame 
Which he for the time had lost, 

With their aid to recapture the maid 
Of which he did so proudly boast. 

But Wanganwi with eagle eye was the first to espy 
His enemies as they came, 

Two arrows he shot ere they reached the spot, 

Two arrows with deadly aim. 

But not Wansingsay he chanced to slay, 

For that redoubtable thief 
With his blade and his brothers’ aid 
Pressed hard on the Piegan chief. 

Fiercely was the battle fought and honors were dearly bought 
Beneath the northern sky, 

Many a fatal arrow was sped, there lay many warrior dead 
From the bow of Wanganwi; 

Many a heart felt the pain, many a breast bore a red, red stain 
Among the braves of Cree; 

There was many a glazing eye, many a bosom heaved its last sigh 
For the love of Nahjoweejee. 


186 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Nahjoweejee to the battle drew, her weapow threw 
And Wansingsav fought alone, 

With gasping breath in the hands of death 
He was left where northwinds moan. 

Nahjoweejee and Wanganwi returned again to their native plain, 
Where the smoke of Piegan lodges rose, 

He had trophies at his belt and long they dwelt 
Safe from northern foes. 


OHEZUZEANDEE 

There sang a brave of the Winnequot band 
(His name was Wfayowassakandy), 

Our teepees stand on Winnequot land 
By the Ohezuzeandee. 

The winds they come pine-laden 

From the bosom, of Ohahonantandee; 

The warrior woos the Winnequot maiden 
By the Ohezuzeandee. 

Nowhere are hearts so faithful and so true, 
Or maidens so comely and so handy 

Female form never so perfect grew 
Than by the Ohezuzeandee. 

The waters gleam and glisten 

Breaking against pebbly banks and sandy, 

The feeding deer stop to listen 

The singing of the Ohezuzeandee. 

The cheekeelaqueelee swings her nest 
On willows slim and wandy, 

She finds the places she loves best 
By the Ohezuzeandee. 

Wahweeahteesa, the turtling dove, 

Comes from Oliahwahaligandy, 

Boughs bend low and leaves whisper their love 
To the waters of the Ohezuzeandee. 


187 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Nowhere is grass so green or flowers more sweetly 
scented 

From Tahaskanee to Minnequandy; 

The buffalo and deer graze contented 
In the vale of Ohezuzeandee. 

And fishes that are good to eat 
Swim up from Ossabandy; 

The beaver finds the bark is sweet 
By the Ohezuzeandee. 


OHEYEANDEZE 

The Winnequot sings in boastful tone 
To him only one vale is known, 

He thinks it is the only one 

But I sing of the Oheyeandeze. 

Comely are the maidens there; 

Maidens with glossy hair; 

Maidens of beauty rare 
By the Oheyeandeze. 

There the birds on lightsome wing 
A sweet and joyous welcome sing 

To the opening buds of spring 
By the Oheyeandeze. 

There the berries are very sweet 

And soft the moss beneath the feet, 

Where lovers and maidens meet 
By the Oheyeandeze. 

There the winds softly blow 7 

And leafy bows are bending low, 

To kiss the Avaters as they flow 
Down the Oheyeandeze. 

There there is abundant game, 

To better place no hunter came, 

There the hunter wins his fame— 

By the Oheyeandeze. 


188 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


TOGNAWOC AND KONAGWISS 

Loud in grief Wayconee wailed 
In grief uncontrolled; 

In sundance her son had failed, 

Hiow could she be consoled? 

Low in sorrow she was bowed 
Nought her son could save, 

Instead of being warrior proud 
He could only be a slave. 

And through the coming years 
With what terrible fate to cope 
His heritage a life of insults and fears 
And nevermore a hope. 

And this for many months he bore 
Nor once did he complain, 

Although it galled him sore 

And he suffered much of pain. 

There was one who had his comrade been 
Before that eventful day, 

Who vented on him now much of spleen 
And harassed him in many a way. 

LTntil at last the worm turned 

An d trampled his tormenter beneath his feet 
His heart with anger burned 

Till death made his vengeance complete. 

Then to the woods he fled 

And from sight of men he hid 
Where he lived a life of solitude and dread 
The wilderness amid. 

Time came when he grew strong 
And lesser grew his fear 
Then would not suffer any wrong 
From those who came near. 

Soon by his strength and skill 

He became the terror of the wood, 

Reckless he and strong of will, 

Along forest paths he made stains of blood. 


189 



MU8INGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


To those by whom he had been abused 
An unforgiving hate he bore, 

When he met them they were hardly used 
And beaten very sore. 

He would tell them that sometime again 
He would do to them much more 
That much of insult and pain 
There was for them in store. 

Many at his hands so ill had fared 
Amd so great had grown his fame, 

Until at last hunters scarcely dared 
Go out to seek the game, 

They called him Tognawoc 

And one day he to the village came, 

Nearby he stood upon a rock 

And cast on them words of shame. 

There with weapon in his hand 
He insulting and defiant stood 
Saying, there was no brave in all the band, 

In their hearts was water instead of blood. 

Then came Neboahame of the frosty locks, 
Kegoa of little care; 

Tagwahan of the picture rocks, 

And Kawagassi, the red bear. 

And Kenewahuh, the king of birds 
And Minnewayhuk the mink, 

Demanding that he retract his words, 

But he replied, “You stink.” 

Now with what a problem did they contend, 

An unforgivable insult, this last, 

And no brave could condescend 

To take a challenge from a disgraced outcast. 

For such would bring undying shame 
Degrading them forever, 

A blot still clingng to their name 
In spite of all endeavor. 


190 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


But still tarnished would be the tribal fame 
Unless the insuiter’s blood was spilled, 

For honor of their tribal name 
The in suiter must be killed. 

Long the chiefs and braves in council sat 
But could make no decision, 

Ah, what a perplexing problem that, 

They were in a false position. 

Tognawoc is no weak slave, well they know, 

Or squaws could be sent to slay him, 

But he was such a wily foe 

There was no chance to waylay him. 

One of such strength and skill, 

Not he that would fall; 

Not such as he could the squaws kill— 

He could kill them all. 

Long had they ceased to debate 
No answer did they know, 

Tognawoc they might despise or hate 
He was a formidable foe. 

I 

In silence the council sat long, 

Youths and women standing around behind, 

Not one the bravest or wisest among 
An answer could find. 

Into the circle a slender youth advances 
And stands beside the council fire, 

On him the warriors cast angry glances, 

They scowled on him in ire. 

“Shall a slave in council speak? 

Shall he stand equal with chiefs and braves? 
What in the council ring does he seek? 

What is it that he craves?” 

The slave cowered before each threatening glance, 
He was one who had failed 
Before the torture of the sundance, 

His heart had quailed. 


191 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Said he, “I am Konagwiss, 

To clear the path I know a way, 

The question before the council I can answer this 
If the chiefs will say I may. 

I will take the challenge of Tognawoc 
With him I will fight, 

He shall not stand to mock 
And on you cast such slight.” 

■'If thou can’st fight Tognawoc 
And bring his scalp to me, 

Then on the word of Wonnonock 
A warrior thou shalt be. 

Go, this shall be thy test, 

The past will be forgot; 

Unless thou bring the outlaw’s crest 
’Tis better thou comest not.” 

Konagwiss sought Tognawoc 
And found him in the wood, 

That brawny savage began to mock, 

He was in jeering mood. 

“Shall Tognawoc with a stripling fight? 

Shall I strive with such a slender foe? 

That form of thine is so very slight 
It could not stand a blow.” 

“Yet I must fight with thee, 

Tognawoc, even though I die, 

There is no other hope for me 
For in disgrace I lie. 

The chief to me this promise gave 
That if I should win, 

I would no longer be a slave 
But counted of warrior kin.” 

“Ah, poor boy, little dost thou know 
How hard a battle tries 
To feeble art thou to meet a foe 
That thou can’st not surprise. 


192 




BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Wliat weapons can’st thou wield, 

Can’st thou use the bow? 

Then shoot, I will catch the arrows on my shield 
Thy weak arm will send so slow.” 

The boy shot his arrows all, 

Tognawoc unwounded stood, 

When he his shield let fall 

He showed no mark of blood. 

“Now thou hast seen all thy arrows miss, 

Now do thou try the knife, 

Without a weapon I will fight thee, Konagwiss, 
Thou can’st not take my life.” 

Konagwiss was disarmed in short time 
For battle he was too weak, 

How could he fight a man in his prime, 

’Twas vain for him to seek. 

“Kill me now,” he said to Tognawoc, 

“I cannot go back again, 

The people would but jeer and mock, 

I rather would be slain.” 

“It shall not be so,” Tognawoc replied, 

“Thou shalt my brother be, 

None shall live that will deride 
Who is brother unto me.” 

Then with his knife he made a wound 
That bled free and fast, 

That wound carefully he bound 

Then lifted him and on to the village passed. 

“Now see ye, chiefs and warriors all, 

Here is one who did what none of you dared to do, 
None dared by my hand to risk a fall, 

A coward crowd are you.” 

“He is a brave and noble son, 

Unw T orthy of him are you, 

You dared not do what he has done, 

See, he has blood—there is but water in you. 


193 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Blood brother he shall be to me, 

Brother to him am I, 

On him shall dread vengeance be 

Who looks on us with contemptuous eye.” 

Then he carried Konagwiss away 
The woodlands far amid, 

Where they stayed until came the day 
When he need no more be hid. 

When strong Konagwiss had grown 
And could handle weapons well, 

He gave promise of a man of braAvn 
With skill few could excel. 

Then they wandered at their will 
To fish or hunt the deer, 

Strong to fight, strong to kill 
And lived without fear. 

One day Konagwiss came to Tognawoc in haste 
“Enemies on the warpath to the village have gone, 
Everything is being laid waste 
And a terrible fight is on. 

Shall we not give our kindred aid 
While they are so beset? 

Surely a nobler fight was never made 
And we may save some yet.” 

To the battle they went in fierce delight 

With loud warwhoops on the foe they dashed. 

And rushed into the thickest fight 
Where battle fiercest clashed. 

And fainting hope revived once more 
In hearts that were depressed, 

They rallied in the battle’s roar 
And renewed the fierce contest. 

Strong was the arm of Tognawoc, 

The blows of Konagwiss were swift; 

Foes dashed on them like the water dashing on a rock 
That breaks in foamy drift. 


194 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


A huge chief, Taminanamack, 

Who led on the furious foe 
By Tognawoc was hurled back 
Bleeding from a terrible blow. 

Dead among his sweating braves he fell 
He was thought to bear a charmed life 
The foe must possess some potent spell 
Who could slay him with a knife. 

Soon by his side lay Wasconee 
A chief of great renown; 

It was thought there no man might be 
W\ho could put him down. 

Fear to their hearts began to flow 
They were growing weak, 

Not long could they fight this foe, 

Safety they must seek. 

They broke and from the battle fled 

Their hearts filled with superstitious dread 
Leaving behind the wounded and the dead 
They went with hasty tread. 

With the tribe lived Konagwiss and Tognawoc, 
They became chiefs of fame, 

Both well proved in battle shock 
Each bore honored name. 

.Well they were deemed, courageous and wise, 
The tribe was protected well, 

Secure from foe’s surprise 
Tn safety they could dwell. 

And each of them took a wife 

And children to their lodges came, 

WTio in their war of life, 

Upheld their fathers’ fame. 


195 




MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


SAJEEWO 

The path where the red rocks stand 
No more his steps shall know, 

No longer the mountain land 
Is the home of Sajeewo. 

He had lived with the tribe for years 

After the faith of his fathers he had forsaken, 
He had borne insults, taunts and jeers, 

But remained in Christian faith unshaken. 

He loved a mountain maid, 

The lissom Nahnonee, 

He sought her oft in mountain glade 
By the waters of Ooanwee. 

Sawahaseegagoogananock 
H;e loved Nahnonee, 

He met Sajeewo by the blood red rock 
On the Cliff of the Cedar Tree. 

“Now will I slay thee, Sajeewo, 

For loving Nahnonee, 

I will throw thee down to the path below, 

Thou wilt not take her from me.” 

Long and hard they fought— 

They fought as rivals might, 

In the furious struggle they reck’d of nought 
Except to win the fight. 

Sajeewo, strong of heart and strong of arm, 

No coward or weakling he, 

In fierce grip he caught his rival’s form 

And threAv him over the Cliff of the Cedar Tree. 

Kawgawayonoowanatock 

With Waymokoowammakee 
Saw him thrown from the blood red rock 
On the Cliff of the Cedar Tree. 


196 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Then the chiefs in council sat, 

All solemn as Indian chiefs can be, 

“Sajeewo, look thou on that 
A brother slain by thee. 

Thou hast taken the light from the eyes of Nahnonee, 
Our brother thou hast slain, 

Tlion hast laid a weight on the heart of Nahnonee, 
Thou can’st not lift again. 

No more in the eyes of Nahnonee 
Will the leaping lovelight shine, 

The light that lies not on land or sea 
Will never meet look of thine. 

Sajeewo, what sayest thou to this? 

What answer dost thou make? 

What of the brother that we shall miss, 

Who is following the sunset’s wake?” 

“The brother whom I have slain, 

I fought him as a foe, 

Yet it brings undying pain 
To the heart of Sajeewo. 

“Thus speak the chiefs in council met 
From here thou must begone, 

Not among us shall thy feet be set. 

To us henceforth thou art unknown. 

No place for thee in our mountain lands, 
Hitherward thy steps shall not return, 

Except to meet death at our hands— 

The death where faggots bum. 

Away beyond the mountain’s rim 
Journeying sad and slow, 

Into the distant smoky dim 
Went Sajeewo. 

Down the winding rocky trail 
To the desert land below, 

Into the murk of a desert gale 
Went Sajeewo. 


197 



MTJSINGS OF A SHEEPHFRDER 


In his throat was burning thirst, 

The thirst that fever brings, 

Enduring almost till the bounds of reason burst 
With the agony that wrings. 

In his body was the pain— 

The pain of woimds unhealed, 

If he should go back again 
His doom was surely sealed. 

Beneath the inclement sky 
Lie down he must, 

Desert winds went rushing by 
Laden heavy with dust. 

His spark of life was flickering out, 

He was slowly dying, 

Desert wolves howled about 
Where Sajeewo was lying. 

No one watched his latest breath, 

No one heard the last faint sigh, 

None beheld the approach of Death— 

He was left alone to die. 

Fading as the soft twilight 
Fades at the close of day, 

So faded from his eyes the sight 
As life was ebbing away. 

The faith that sustained him in bygone years, 
Through many dangers past, 

Soothed his sorrows, calmed his fears 
And cheered him to the last. 

His funeral song was the desert’s weird tones, 
There was none to bury him, 

The wolf and wildcat gnawed his bones 
As the wintry light grew dim. 

Where the hills of sand 

Move with the winds that blow, 

Somewhere in the desert land 
Whiten the bones of Sajeewo. 


198 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


He lies out in tlie desert there, 

His resting place unmarked by stick or stone, 
Though graves be left to Nature’s care, 

God will find His own. 


WIND OVER THE WILTED GRASS 

Wahooweazezazeelalilaahwahteza on the prairie stands 
Shading her eyes with her small brown hands 
The far horizon scanning; 

She is looking over the sunny plain 

Watching for him who will never return again 
From the vale of the Kawniskanning. 

There she stands through long summer days 
Watching the plain with wistful gaze 

The sim her brown cheek still deeper tanning; 

But the grass grows green on the graves 
Of Tahnamawissee and his braves 

In the vale of the Kawniskanning. 

There she stands till evening shadows long 
Mingle dusk and dark among, 

The wind her long hair fanning; 

But the grass growls long on the graves 
Of Tahnamawissee and his braves 

In the vale of the Kawniskanning. 

The Northwind across the prairie sweeps 
Still her faithful watch she keeps 

Spotless white the whole wide plain is spanning 

And the snow lies deep on the graves 
Of Tahnamawissee and his braves 

In the vale of the Kawniskanning. 


199 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE CLIFF OF THE CEDAR TREE 

“Oowananawammanoonatroc, 

I pray thee tell to me 
Who sits and sings on the blood-red rock 
On the Cliff of the Cedar Tree.” 

“Oh, Tonowanodonononodock, 

An evil thing it be, 

Shun thee the blood-red rock 

On the Cliff of the Cedar Tree.” 

“Wise one, Oowananawammanoonatroc, 

Such tale will not frighten me, 

I will go to the blood-red rock 
On the Cliff of the Cedar Tree.” 

“Oh, Tonowanodonononodock, 

T pray listen to me, 

’Tis Death sits and sings on the blood-red rock, 

On the Cliff of the Cedar Tree.” 

“Nay, wise one, Oowananawammanoonatroc, 

Such thing may not be, 

Sweet sang the voice on the blood-red rock, 

On the Cliff of the Cedar Tree.” 

Away went Tonowanodonononadock, 

Away he went to see, 

Who sat and sang on the blood-red rock 
On the Cliff of the Cedar Tree. 

It was never told by Tonowanodonononodock, 

Never a word said he, 

They found him dead below the blood-red rock 
Under the Cliff of the Cedar Tree. 

Now listen to Oowananawammanoonatroc, 

Wise woman is she, 

She says, “Death sits and sings on the blood red rock 
On the Cliff of the Cedar Tree.” 

Till Sajeewo comes with Sawahaseegagoogananock. 

And they meet with Nahnonee, 

Death will sing on the blood-red rock, 

On the Cliff of the Cedar Tree. 

Then will Hobbobommomockomock 
Call back his evil spirits three, 

That dwell in the blood-red rock 
On the Cliff of the Cedar Tree.” 

200 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


WANDANWAN, THE LONELY HEAKT 

Wandanwan was an aged chief, his teepee stood alone; 

Winter winds howled ’round it with long and dreary moan, 

The willows by the stream sang their lonesome mournful air, 
Around afar was spread the prairie, brown and bare. 

The chief had been a warrior but his braves were now all gone. 
Of three thousand braves who followed him was not left even 
one; 

They had struck the spirit trail through the blood of a van¬ 
quished foe 

And he, the bravest of them all, had been the last to go. 

Treading the warpath often; they breathed the battle’s breath, 
Till across the red trail of war was stretched the hand of 
Death, 

Though dying on the battlefield, Death brought them not defeat, 
Speeding triumphant over the spirit path, their victory was 
complete; 

At that time “Saga navayayanitse” was the chieftain’s name, 
Chief of many lodges, far over the plains was known his fame. 

His tepees could be seen stretching far down the valley lands 
And smoke curing in the air from camps of his numerous 
bands; 

He was chief of many chiefs who to his councils came, 

No chief was there of the wide plains who had greater fame. 

Not far away dwelt Okanonda’s tribe, he was a chief of envious 
mood, 

Ambitious, and thirsting for fame, he revelled in deeds of 
blood. 

With Saganayayayanitse he smoked the pipe of peace, 

Professed for him a brother’s love that would never cease. 

But often through his mind would flit ambition’s dream, 

And in his treacherous heart he nursed an evil scheme. 

Okanonda would stand first in fame, should Saganayayayanitse 
fall. 

Chief of many lodges his fame o’ershadowed all. 

Okanonda long had sought to gain his heart’s desire; 

Through coming of leaves and snows he waited, with patience 
that did not tire. 

Through Saganayayayanitse’s hunting grounds came a foraging 
foe, 


201 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


As numerous as the pebbles lie where mountain rivers flow. 
Saganayayayanitse with his braves went forth to fight the foe, 
Then Okanoncla seized the chance to strike a treacherous blow, 
Surrounding the friendly camps he attacked with all his force 
And rested not till every one was lying a lifeless corpse. 

When Saganayayayanitse’s braves returned, what a sight did 
they behold! 

The dear ones they had left behind were lying still and cold, 
There were lying aged men whose locks had long been grey 
And many a valiant youth had fallen in the fray. 

The women and the children had been slaughtered every one. 

Treacherous friends are cruel foes, no mercy they had shown, 
Looking on that dread scene what thought those warriors then, 
Could there a more terrible blow fall on the hearts of men? 

Rage and sorrow filled their hearts and fierce the fire that 
burned. 

Deep within those warrior’s souls as the sad truth they 
learned. 

Around the dead with grasped hands they swore the dread war 
bond, 

Vowing by all that is and was on earth and all that is beyond, 
Never to rest in peace while any of that false tribe breathed the 
breath of life, 

But to pursue them with unceasing war in unrelenting strife. 

The anger that burned in their hearts brooked of no delay, 

Yet cautious even in vengeful hate they went forth to slay, 
As silent as the owl’s soft wing fans the air of night, so silently 
they trod, 

If there was sound of footfall it was swallowed by the sod. 

Through the darksome night they kept on their silent way. 

Not swamp, river, ravine or brake caused them to stop or 
stay; 

The sun scarce tinged the mountain peaks that rise proud and 
high, 

When fierce and loud the war whoop pealed betwixt earth 
and sky. 

Then the deadly arrows sang and swashed the tomahawk, 
Brightly flashed the keen-edged knife in avenging stroke. 
Okanonda, thou false-hearted, what terrible foes are here? 

There is no mercy in their hearts and they know no fear; 


202 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


They have sworn destruction of thee and all thy band, 

To sweep thee and all thy kindred forever from the land. 

Thy camp is surrounded, thy women and children here, none can 
get away; 

The war brethren’s vow binds them all of thy tribe to slay. 

All day the battle raged and still yet more fierce and furious 
grew. 

Saganayayayanitse and war brethren still to their vow are 
true. 

But the war brethren are falling fast and are now but few, 
Fierce hate fired their hearts, they still in vengeance slew. 

Through their cordon none had been able yet to pass, 

Okanonda’s braves, women and children were mingled in one 
mass; 

Death made no distinction there, indiscriminate, everywhere his 
hand, 

Gathered harvest bountiful from that devoted band. 

But soon Okanonda has help of warriors from tribes who dwell 
afar, 

Enemies Saganayayayanitse had triumphed over in war, 

Now joined Okanonda to strike a foe they could not fight alone, 
To strike, to humble and to vanquish the proudest chieftain 
known. 

Against such fearful odds could he hope yet to prevail? 

His tribe would be no more if his brethren’s arms should fail. 

Against six times their number they in direful strife contend. 
What bitter taunts! What savage yells to the skies ascend! 

Still went on the furious strife, still sprung the bow with hateful 
twang. 

Still the chieftains cheered their braves as deadly arrows 
sang. 

Saganayayayanitse fought among that wild and battling throng, 
The fire-hot hate in his heart nerved his arm to blows swift 
and strong, 

Brightly flashed his eagle eye, its fire had not been quenched. 
Heavy fell the stroke of the eagle’s wing, no joint had yet 
been wrenched. 

Battling without hope ’gainst fate they bravely fought and fell, 
While Okanonda’s braves answered with fierce exultant yell. 

Saganayayayanitse’s voice was heard above the battle’s clash 
And in the fury of despair they made one tremendous dash. 


203 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPIIFRDER 


Tumultuous was the strife under the pale light of the evening 
star, 

But that last despairing effort had turned the tide of war. 

Okanonda’s warriors, dead as winter leaves among the driven 
snow, 

Ill the day for him that he changed a true friend to a relent¬ 
less foe. 

Saganayayayanitse’s brave war brethren, where are they? 

Along the spirit trail to the setting sun their spirit feet are 
hastening away. 

Now the two warring chiefs were left to decide the strife alone; 

Of all the braves they brought to battle there were living none. 

Like furies fired with hate they met in the battle’s smother, 

With weapons stained and blunted they slashed and thrust 
each other. 

Okanonda’s heart was pierced, he reeling, backward fell. 

The Grey Wolf far up the mountan side heard his wild death 
yell 

Saganayayayanitse swung Okanonda’s long warlock in the air, 

But in his heart was sense of loneliness, a deep and terrible 
despair. 

What, to him, was revenge or victory now? What to him renown? 

There are no children in his lodges. He is left alone. 

Saganaya-yaya-nit-se (Chief of many lodges), from that name he 
must part. 

Henceforth he was known as Wan-dan-wan, Chief of Lonely 
Heart. 

With aching heart and bleeding wounds, on the grass he lay, 

Nor cared he to rise again, there was no joy for him in coming 
day. 

The night wind sighed, lengthened shadows were lost in deeper 
gloom, 

Night dews were gathering on the warrior’s broken plume. 

The dismal cry of coyotes came on the cooling breeze; 

A bird sang a plaintive song among the whispering trees. 

Kindly Nature soothed his pain, his wounds began to heal, 

But in his soul was a soren wound than flesh can ever feel. 

He struggled back to his old home, where his loved ones fell, 

Close by that sad spot the lonely chieftain choose to dwell. 

Other tribes heard the tale and offered him love, home and 
aid of a brother’s hand, 

But he would never forsake the resting place of his once 
proud band. 


204 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


There, lonely, for years he lived and as old age crept on, 
Longingly he turned his eyes toward the setting sun. 

'When the winter’s breath was on the earth one day he stood 
gazing there, 

The sky was bright beyond the mountains’ peaks that cleave 
the chilly air. 

“O! Great Spirit,” he cried, “I am old, why longer should I wait? 

Why not like a warrior, go forth to meet approaching fate?” 
He mounted his old war horse that had borne him in many a 
fray; 

(Those battles of the brave red men; are they not told of to 
this day?) 

Up sprung the North wind with breath so keen and cold, 

Shivering through his feeble frame for Wandanwan was old. 
The frosty winds of many winters gone had made his hair so 
hoar, 

He had been a brisk young brave full eighty years before. 

Heavily rolled the storm clouds across the darkening sky, 

But little cared the old chief, he knew the end was nigh. 
Past him with hissing sound the swirling snowflakes fly, 

Onward kept the old chief though drifts were piling high; 
Hard and dangerous was the way, little did the chieftain care, 
His heart was in the Spirit land among his brethren there. 

But what is that upon the trail to him approaching nigh? 

A man. But he seems not like other men imto the Indian’s eye; 
His face was pale, though not-with fear, he was of noble mien, 
Yet he was no warrior, about him was no weapon seen; 
With kindly greeting he placed his hand in that of the Lonely 
Heart, 

And the chief through his cold veins felt a thrill of friend¬ 
ship start. 

“What does the chief abroad in storm and cold? Were he not 
better in his tepee? 

The Northwind blows across the land, no wind so cold as 1 he.” 
“I came forth, O, Paleface, because my tepee is cold and lone, 
There is no fire upon the hearth, my kindred all are gone. 
In the Happy Hunting Grounds of the Spirit lands are they, 

I go to join them now across the mountain way. 

I am Wandanwan of the Lonely Heart, my life on earth is done; 
I go to seek my brethren now in the home of the setting sun.” 


205 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


“Turn, O Chief, mortal cannot follow where spirit feet have sped, 
The mountain wind will chill thee and the raven find thee 
dead. 

Go not upon the mountain trail, O chief, I ask thee, stay; 

If thou seek’st for thy brethren now I will show thee the way. 

Thy people to the Father’s home in the spirit land have gone, 
But unless thou believe in the Father’s Word their faces thou 
wilt never look upon. 

To redeem all mankind from sin the Great Father sent his only 
Son. 

Who died that all might live. To thee I have come to make 
this known. 

Those dying in their sin must take the dark and downward way 
Unto the place of raging fires forever in torture are they, 

Those believing on the Son who came all sinners to redeem 
Will ascend to love and light where our Father dwells 
supreme. 

As thou forgivest those that sinned against thee, so will thou be 
forgiven, 

And in the light of our Father’s love thy soul will live in 
heaven.” 

“Thy words fill my ears, thou has my spirit strangely stirred, 
Thou tell’st me the Great Spirit hath a Son of whom I never 
heard. 

Where are my people, Paleface? If thou knowest, tell me where. 
There is no path so dark or dangerous but I will follow there. 

I lived with them of old, I would live with them again, 

Be it in a land of love and light or dark place of unceasing 
pain. 

They were ever true to me, to them I will be true, 

Through that long time of loneliness my heart fonder grew, 

Loving memories of them all fall on my heart like dew. 

I will see my loved ones smile again and hear the voices of 
faithful ones I knew. 

Show me the path they have trod, from it I w r ill not turn, 

Though they dw r ell amid raging fires with them I will burn. 

My people knew not of the Father’s Word, they knew not of the 
Son, 

They knew not of forgiven sins, or how redemption could be 
won.” 

“The Great Father’s love is great and He His love will show; 
They who never heard His Word, yet shall His mercy know. 


206 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


But thou, knowing of the Son, only through faith in Him can 
pass the starry dome 

To dwell with thy people evermore in that bright Spirit 
Home.” 

“O Brother, my life is going away from me, I know ’tis going 
fast; 

Haste thou to put the holy sign on me before the time is 
past. 

I believe thy words are true, deep in my heart something tells 
me so. 

I hear our Father calling; to our Father I will go.” 

To baptize the Lonely Heart in that bitter cold, shall I tell you 
how 

The missionary caught water from a cascade near to wet the 
Indian’s brow, 

In the name of the Father, of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, 

And prayed, “O, Father, guide him that he may not be lost.” 

The longing of the Lonely Heart was stilled; the weary soul had 
fled, 

Sinking among the stainless snow, Wandanwan was dead. 

Low in a rocky cleft his white brother laid him down 

And covered him with crumbling shale and chilly stone. 

On the grave he laids boughs of the cedar and the pine, 

Snow falls deep upon it and icy crystals around it shine, 

Some say his spirit wanders yet among the mountains of stone 

Some say they hear his death chant as the wild winds sigh 
and moan; 

Some tell of seeing an aged warrior who leaves no footprints in 
the snow; 

But I think it is not so. Why should he return who so longed 
to go? 

Why should the weary soul that seeks for rest to earth return? 

Deep is the sleep of Wandanwan, he wakes not night or morn. 

Summer’s sun or winter’s snow may crown the mountain’s crest, 

Not howl of wolf or eagle’s scream can break the warrior’s 
rest. 


207 




MU SINGS OF A SHEEgHERDER 


TISQUONTAN AND OOWANDA 

Have you heard of Yeewaynodin 
Of the league of the Nogowomin; 

Have you heard of Keewahyodin 
As told by old Ahkomin. 

Have you heard of the gentle one Kahtodin, 

The friend of lovers still: 

Know ye of the mighty Nahwodin, 

Strong and of good will. 

By old Ahkomin it was said 

That Tisquontan, who was Otnahmo’s son, 

Was deep in love with a. comely maid, 

The daughter of Kogowon. 

Between Otnahmo and Kogowon was long time a feud 
In which were many slain, 

Between them was plot and battle rude 
And stake and torture pain. 

Kogowon had vowed that strife should not cease 
Till Otnahmo was captive in his hands 
Not till then would the day of peace 
Dawn on the warring bands. 

A great magician was Kogowon 

Acquainted with spirits of the dark 
And to wreak his vengeanceo on, 

He chose Tisquontan as his mark. 

Inkosewaissee was prophet old 
And far into the future saw, 

Coming events he had oft foretold 
And they had happened so. 

Yes, he to his people had foretold it 

When the spirit through him had spoken 
That they should behold it 

And showed to them the token. 

That he by whose hand 

The blood of Tisquontan was shed 
His kin would pass before him from the land 

And sorrow and loneliness descend upon his head. 


208 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


For Tisquontan was guarded by Nejee Mikiyundee 
And the Unjee Oomeebameequay 
The Nushta Meeteeweeyakundee 
And the Mushta Wittunmssegay. 

Spirit people of the air 
The makers of dreams; 

Spirit people of the forest watching everywhere 
Spirit people of the hills and streams. 

Was not his mother born among them 
Those people so seldom seen 
Yes surely she did belong them 
And they loved her as a queen. 

Knowing this, Tisquontan never to battle went 
Nor sought he warrior’s fame 
And his bow was never bent 
Except when hunting game. 

But Tisquontan loved a maiden 
Ah, yes, she loved him, too, 

And much their minds were laden 

With thoughts of what they should do. 

But Kogowon had promised Mogogowo 
To give her for his aid 
To overcome Otnahmo, his foe 
And many plans they made. 

To Kogowon spoke Mogogowo, 

“Thv daughter hath a lover 
And but very short time ago 
This fact I did discover. 

Wilt let her go with Tisquontan 
Or give her now to me, 

Not long ago I heard them plan 
That together they would flee.” 

Kogowon'said “Tisquontan first captive make 
And bring him unto me, 

Then Oowanda thou may’st take 
To lodge with thee.” 


209 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Then four war brethren chose Mogogowo, 

Each a stout and able man, 

And they into the forest go 

To watch and wait for Tisquontan. 

As Tisquontan and Oowanda talked 
Less alert was eye and ear 
And his enemies on him stalked 
Till they were very near. 

Then they sprang to seize, 

But nimbly aside he sprung 
And struck a warrior to his knees 
Tisquontan was strong. 

Another one received a blow 

That brought him near to death 
A third soon was lying low 
Gasping hard for breath. 

Another grappled with Tisquontan 
And to the ground they fall 
Mukkawye, though a brawny man, 

For help began to call. 

Then his club Mogogowo swings 

Down on the head of Tisquontan, 

To him it sudden darkness brings 

From which he wakes a captive man. 

About him his enemies stood 

The earth seemed to swim around; 

From his head the oozing blood 
Ban trickling to the ground. 

Mogogowo to Oowanda said, “Thy father says thou art mine 
To my lodge thou wilt go, 

The light of thy smile will shine 
On the hearth of Mogogowo.” 

To him Oowanda answered then 

As she looked on him with scorn, 

“Thou most contemptible of men, 

Slave and coward born. 


210 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Mogogowo to thee be it known 
Mate with thee I never can 
Thou who feared to meet alone 
One unarmed man.” 

“Woman, thou must obey 

When Mogogowo commands 
Now heed thee to what 1 say 

Today I received thee at thy father’s hands.” 

“Not so, no coward ever can, 

And MogogoAvo never shall be mate to me 
Unless my lover Tisquontan 
Says that it shall be.” 

Then to Tisquontan he turned 
His dark scowling face, 

His eyes with red anger burned 

On Tisquontan helpless in that place. 

“Unless thou give what I ask thee here 
Then Tisquontan beware, 

For thou will face a fate so drear 
That heart can never dare. 

Now thou must drink the bitter cup 
Thou must renounce this maid, 

Thou must thy dream of love give up 
Nor be thy answer long delayed.” 

Tisquontan answered, “Never Avill I give up 
Heart that is heart of mine 
For her I would drink the bitterest cup, 

She never will be thine.” 

“Bethink thee well, Tisquontan, 

Of the fate that will be thine, 

Never was such fate endured by man 
Against thee all powers combine.” 

“Never shall they who trust in me 
Think of me Avith shame, 

Nor ever of my line shall be 

One to bear dishonored name.” 


211 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Then spoke grim old Kogowon, 

“On thee I will place my magic seal 
And thou who art my enemy’s son 
Shall my dread vengeance feel. 

With aid of my magic powers 

I will confine thee to a drear land of snow 
Where the cold and icy showers 
Will add to thy never-ending woe. 

Upon thee, snow and ice will bank 
Until intolerable the load 
And thy blood become chill and dank, 

As that of frozen toad. 

Above thee, Winter on his throne 
Will sit implacable and stem 
In ever increasing anguish thou will groan 
But no pity shall earn. 

Imprisoned in that frozen land 
Thy joy in life shall cease; 

Only the touch of a maiden’s hand 
Can bring to thee release.” 

When Oowanda standing by had heard 
Her lover consigned to such fate, 

Then her loyal heart was stirred 
To the rescue of her mate. 

But Ooowanda had no magic powers, 

She knew no witch’s spell 
She pondered through long dark hours 
That upon her fell. 

She prepared for a journey long 

Nor knew how long that journey might be 
She was imbued with courage strong 
And a faithful heart had she. 

In secret was her preparation made 
No questions dared she ask, 

Nor could she call for aid 

But soon she was ready for her task. 


212 




BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Oowanda then set forth 

To the realm of chill white Winter’s reign 
Where the sad spirits of the North 
Sing in mournful strain. 

Faraway against a cloudy sky 
The dim horizon lay, 

A cheerless sight to meet the eye 
In the gloom of a sunless day. 

She saw around her lie 

A world so vast and brown 
While on the edge of the northern sky 
Gathered a darker frown. 

Old King Winter saw the maid 
As he sat on his throne, 

Commanded that her steps be stayed 
That a forbidden line be drawn. 

Over which no mortal might pass 
Or from it ever return, 

Where the spark of life, Alas! 

Would thereat cease to burn. 

As soon as the command left his lips 
Forth his aerial spirits go 
To impede Oowanda’s steps 
By shaking down the snow. 

Save for the falling snow 
All was silent and so still 
For not a breath of wind did blow 
And the air grew dead and chill. 

Still she strove to make haste 

Though there was no lodge or town 
And over all that desolate waste 
The endless snow came down. 

Feeble she grew and frail 

With a fear in her heart she would not own 
And still on Oowanda’s trail 
The pitiless snow came down. 


213 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Until each motionless tree was drest 
In fluffy fleecy gown 
And it lay on Oowanda’s breast 
As soft as eiderdown. 

Still relentlessly fell the snow 
Till it was so very deep 
There was not a single sign to show 
Where Oowanda lay asleep. 

In depth increasing by degrees 
That every hope might drown 
It piled above the tops of the tallest trees 
Nor left a speck of brown. 

Then uprose Yeewaynodin, 

Saying “Such thing shall not be, 

My brother Keewahyodin, 

Come lend aid to me. 

O sister, O Kahtodin, 

I am sure thou wilt agree 
To join with Keewahyodin 
To set these lovers free. 

And strong one, O Nahwodin 

Come join thine arm with mine 
And with Keewahyodin and Kahtodin 
Together we’ll combine. 

’Tis against such evil magic 
That we are ever contending; 

This tale that seems so tragic 
Shall have happier ending.” 

Together we will break the grip of that icy hand 
Where Oowanda lies 
And over that cold and silent land 
Shall fall the warmth of sunny skies. 

Thus was made the league of Nogowomin, 

Of the spirit people each was chief 
And it is told by old Ahkomin 

To the lovers they brought relief. 


214 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


When with all their powers arrayed 
They mightily had striven 

And old King Winter much afraid 
Was to far-off regions driven. 

Then Oowanda they awake 
And to Tisquontan she came 

And he led her by stream and lake 
To a land of abundant game. 

They built their lodge by a pleasant grove 
Alive with the song of birds 

And over grassy plains there rove 
Many grazing herds. 

The seasons of leaves and snows 
Often came and went 

But no child or kin Mogogowo knows 
And he grew old and bent. 

For there came no children to his line; 

His totem is unknown; 

He was left in solitude to pine 
And end his life alone. 

To Tisquontan and Oowanda happiness came flowing free 
And children to their line 

Plentiful as leaves on the beechen tree 
Or needles on the pine. 


215 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


WEETAMINNEMAWIT 

A grim old chief was Massagon 
He dwelt amid a swamp 
His dwelling place to few was known 
About it burned the fenfire lamp. 

His mother a witch of ill repute 
Dealt in dread spell and charm, 
Malignant and evil in pursuit 
Delighting in doing harm. 

Massagon had seen Weetaminnemawit 
And he did covet her so; 

In him the fire of Desire was lit 
In a way that only bad men know. 

She was sweet and fresh as flowers 
That bloom by the streams 
And pleasant as summer hours 
An ideal of lovers’ dreams. 

And she with her mother dwelt 
The kindly Wahkatoon, 

And all who knew them felt 
That to know them was a boon. 

The maid was known by a brave young chief 
She was the light of his eyes 
That she was best of maids was his belief 
And the most desired prize. 

She was to him as dawn of day 
And night of lucent moon, 

Often he went the way 

To the lodge of Wahkatoon. 

But Massagon seized the maid 
And bore her far away 
Through many a darksome glade 
Where death and danger lay. 

For he had forest lair 

By bog and thicket hidden 
Where not even the bravest dare 
Ever to come unbidden. 


216 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Through black and noisesome bogs 
Through dank and foulsome fen 
And over tumbled rotting logs 
He took her to his den. 

Nepanamawot had found the trail 
And had followed far; 

When Woonagung met him and told a tale 
Of warriors out for war. 

Who came from a far-off place 
Distant many slumbers 
They were demon like of face 
And were great in numbers. 

Frightful in appearance when they stood revealed 
Men of long arm and great of might, 

In the thickets were concealed, 

Well hidden from the sight. 

She told him of dreadful incantations 

That would make the heart blood freeze 
Pictured to him terrible situations 
And death by slow degrees. 

But his purpose was unshaken 

From the trail he would not turn 
Fears that might awaken 

He regarded them with scorn. 

He replied, “Past thy horde of strangers 
I will follow my way 
Not all thy fancied dangers 
Will induce me now to stay.” 

Woonagung said, “The black bogs are before thee 
Where deadly serpents lie 
The black ooze closing o’er thee, 

Thou wilt surely die.” 

“Not black bogs or serpents will deter me 
Nepanamawot is going on; 

Out of my way, bestir thee 
Thou mother of Massagon. 


217 



MUSJNGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Seek not to delay me 

Thou witch of lying tongue 
Begone, lest I slay thee, 

Blackhearted Woonagung. 

I have said it, I Nepanamawot 
Will not turn aside 
Begone or die on this spot, 

Foul witch thou hast lied. 

To save thy son nought will avail 
His hiding place is known 
All his cunning wiles shall fail 
I will slay his mother’s son. 

I will go to the black bog’s heart 

I know where the swamp chief dwells 
From his heart a red rushing stream shall start 
In spite of thy evil spells. 

And she who is dear to me/ as the light that shines 
On the land of men 
And sweet as the breath of pines 
That grow in wildwood glen. 

She is the glory of my day 

The light of my sun and moon 
And I will bear her safe away 
To the arms of WJahkatoon.” 

Still she tried his steps to impede 
She would not let him begone 
She wished to cause such delay as her son might need 
Before she let the young chief go on. 

Then he seized the hag 

And hurled her into the slimy pit 
But his footsteps did not lag 
He hastened W T eetaminnemawit. 

He ran along fallen log 

From tussock to tussock he sprung 
He hastened across quaking bog 
From bush to bush he swung. 


218 




BY RICHARD FORSTER 


And lie wallowed through the mire 
He slipped and crawled and slid 
It would make the strongest tire 
To do the things he did. 

At last a knoll he saw 

That rose like an island from the mud 
Where his grim inveterate foe 

With his how and arrows stood. 

And he shot his arrows fast 
Yes, he shot them all 
And when he had shot the last 
He saw the young chief fall. 

He had nearly reached the solid land 
When heavily he went down 
He caught a twig with clutching hand 
Then sank in the water brown. 

The twig hung limp by the water side 
Where the young chief had been 
Massagon watched a circle wide 
But he nowhere could be seen. 

But he had dived where water was deep 
Under the slime thick and green 
He came up where weed and fern in tangled heap 
His stealthy movements screen. 

He lay where weeds grew rank 
And set an arrow to his bow 
For in plain sight on the bank 
Was standing his foe. 

Steadily the bow was bent 

The bow was good and strong 
Quickly was the arrow sent 
To avenge his wrong. 

Straight the arrow sped 

And struck true to the mark; 

The grim Massagon was dead 

His spirit went over path lone and dark. 


219 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


The chief and Weetaminnemawit 

Hastened back through forest ways 
For they knew her mother would sit 
Grieving through nights and days. 

All a thrill with love and pride 
It was very soon 

When a brave young chief received his bride 
At the hand of Wahkatoon. 


LONGING FOR THE DESERT AGAIN 

Well I love the verdant woods, 

Well I love the plain, 

And well I love the foamy floods 
Fed by the splashing rain; 

But, Oh! my heart is longing, 

Oh! my heart is longing, 

Longing for the desert again. 

Beautiful is the mountain side 
With melting snows adrain, 

Beautiful are the meadows wide 
And fertile fields of grain. 

But, Oh! my eyes are longing, 

Oh! my eyes are longing, 

Longing for a sight of the desert again. 

Skies like desert skies 

Are nowhere else to be seen, 

More gorgeous than Solomon’s court, 

Or robes of Sheba’s, queen, 

And, Oh! my heart is longing, 

Oh! my heart is longing, 

Longing for the desert again. 

The colors that in the desert are seen 
Are seen nowhere else on earth, 

He who painted the desert scene 
Somewhere in Heaven had birth, 

And, Oh! my heart is longing, 

Oh! my heart is longing, 

Longing for the desert again. 


220 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


EARLY to bed 

“Early to bed, early to rise 

Makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise,” 

My father oft would say; 

He had a notion in his head 
That children should be sent early to bed 
And he would have his way. 

In summertime I was often sent to bed at five 
When the air with song and sunshine was alive 
Hiow much better it would have been to play! 

That old saw is but folly in wisdom’s guise. 

Clothed in words appearing wise, 

I call it ‘rot’ today. 

I would lie and listen to birds atrill 
And watch the sunshine on the hill, 

All flushed with yellow gold, 

I would watch the summer day 

Linger along the hills then slowly fade away, 

And the creeping dusk the trees enfold. 

Be it spring or autumn time 
Midwinter or summer prime 

From this rule he would not stray. 

And in winter allow met to remark 
I was oft sent to bed before ’twas dark 

Where I’d watch the gloom deepen from the gray. 

Then I would shiver and shake 
And in the darkness lie awake 
Sick with terror and pain, 

For steps there were 
Came up the stair 
But never went down again. 

And some would stop 
At halfway up 

And then were heard no more, 

And through the gloom 
Ghostly forms came in the room 
But never came through the door. 


221 



MUSINQS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


And some would stand 
And raise a cold white hand, 

Then they would look at me 
And say “Eternal ban 
Be on the man 

That dooms children to comrades such as we; 
’Tis only eyes of death 
Or fleeting breath 

Our earthless forms should see. 

May he live unloved and forgot 
Forsaken and forlorn his lot 
An awful fate to dree. 

Even we would sigh 
If the sleepless eye 

Should wear thy soul from thee.” 

Beside me some would sit and tell 
Me tales of what befell 
In times of long ago; 

Some would sit and sob and moan, 

Some talked softly in undertone 
While walking to and fro; 

About the room some would flit 
And some would in silence sit, 

Glazing through the leaded window panes 
Some themselves proudly bore 
And battered armor wore 
Marked with bloody stains. 

There was one much taller than the rest 
The armor was broken on his breast 
And he was helmed and plumed; 

A face rigd, white and grim 

Looked from beneath his helmet’s rim— 

A lurid light his sunken eyes illumed. 

He was of proud and stately grace, 

Like hero of some noble race 
Of knightly age; 

Rigid he was of body and face 

Slow of step and measured of pace, 

In mailed hand he held a, battle gage. 


222 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


A red stain showed where his mail was cleft, 

He looked not to right or left, 

His plume the ceiling grazed he was so tall. 

At his side hung motionless a blade 
With pace unslackened and unstay’d 
He passed on through the wall. 

The room was hushed and still, 

Even the air grew chill 

As through the room he passed; 

Of all the ghostly figures that came 

He alone was unchanged and still the same, 
And still he came the last. 

When like the fading light of dying day 
They would slowly fade away 
And pass to the unseen, 

Then when all were gone 

The room seemed so cold and lone 
And deeper was the gloom. 

So very lonely it seemed to me 

That the loneliness seemed to be 
Laden with the chill of doom. 

I know to you they will seem 

The creatures of a disordered dream 
To me they were very real. 

I saw them in my waking hours, 

Saw and heard with my waking powers 
And felt as waking people feel. 


223 



MU81NG8 OF A SHEEPHERDER 


CORLIN 

When Corlin was a king 

Mighty he was and strong, 

He did many a wicked thing 

That shameful was and wrong. 

One day when hunting hight 
Through the woods of Coe 
He saw Sir Hurdin’s castled height 
From the vale below. 

“This Hurdin, what hath he 

With place so fair and strong? 

Kin he is to Apperlee 

His presence does me wrong; 

To assail him would take twenty thousand spears, 
Yea, twenty thousand swords, 

And bring to their bloody biers 
The half of all my lords. 

Then Tregallan and Tremord 
Would parcel out my lands, 

And I should fall by vengeful sword 
Or fall in enemies’ hands; 

To win me what I want, 

Without the risk and loss to me 

That comes through geave and gant.” 

But there some way must be 

Then he hied him to his home to ponder then 
And bethink what might be done 
Hurdin lands to sunder then 
And plant his banner on; 

He bethought him of a scheme 

Whereby he thought that he could win, 

It was not such as would beseem 
A knight of noble kin. 

With followers few he rode 
Out to the woods of Coe, 

There in secrecy he bode 
Until the sun went low; 

When the day was wearing late 

And night coming on of sullen hue. 

Then he rode to Hurdin’s gate 
And his bugle blew. 


224 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


“Who seeks to pass within Hurdin’s wall?” 

A sturdy warder cried, 

“"Who seeks to enter Hnrdin’s hall, 

Why do you hither ride?” 

“Sir, Brogelwin seeks food and rest 
And shelter for the night, 

By hunger and by cold distrest 
I am in sorry plight.” 

Sir Hurdin was a generous man 
And company he liked well, 

Said he, “Hurdin will do all he can. 

Thy discomfort to dispel. 

A stranger is welcome here 
And in comfort he may stay, 

And be free to chase our fallow deer 
Ere he goes away.” 

Sir Brogelwin was born through the gate. 

Feeble he looked and sick, 

To receive him in the hall did Hurdin wait, 

And gave orders for his tender care, unwitting 
of any trick. 

There Brogelwin lie sojourned 
And ate at Hurdin’s board, 

Till he well the castle learned 
As well as its own lord. 

Sir Ruddam was Hurdin’s kin, 

Keen he was and shrewd, 

Chief he was of Rodenbrin, 

Also of Brellintrude. 

And Sir Ruddam to Hurdin came— 

There was strong friendship between the twain, 
With Hurdin he loved to hunt the game 
And both for sport were fain. 

W^hen Sir Ruddam saw 

Hurdin’s guest, Sir Brogelwin, 

Thought he, “Of something that I know 
I must inform my kin.” 

“Hurdin, I have seen thy guest, 

Knowest thou aught of he? 

Has thy castle become the Raven’s nest? 

Here he should not be.” 


225 



MUSING ,Sf OF A SHEEPHERDER 


To thee swift action I would bespeak, 

Speed him hence from here, 

Ere thou feel the Raven’s beak 
And bloody Corlin spear. 

On this height within these walls 
If thou permit him here. 

Very soon thy castle falls 
For he will do thee deere; 

’Tis Corlin’s self, in Corlin is no honor found 
Nor in Corlin’s kith or kin; 

Nor is there a more sneaking hound 
All this land within.” 

Said Hurdin, “Never from this hall there went 
One fasting, and at night, 

Not even Corlin shall be sent 
Hence in such a plight 
But when coroeth morning light 
Hence shall Corlin go, 

For he loveth not open fight 
He is a treacherous foe.” 

That night when Corlin came to Hurdin’s board 
He came as Sir Brogelwin, 

He came without belt or sword, 

Nursing his black sin, 

There was on Hurdin’s board 
A massive silver cup, 

With ’graving it was much enflored. 

And Corlin took it up. 

“Ha!” said he, “What rare and quaint device, 
What marvelous workmanship; 

I’ll warrant no other such cup of price 
Ever bore wine to lip.” 

Now, Hurdin was a man without pretense, 

His reply was unstudied and swift, 

“ ’Tis thine tomorrow when thou goest hence, 

It is my parting gift.” 

Corlin crashed down the cup on Hurdin’s head, 
Crashed down with such deadly force, 

So quick Hurdin’s soul was sped 
He reached the floor a corpse. 


226 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


And Uffrak of Corlin’s kind 
With the treacherous blade 
Stabbed Sir Ruddam from behind 
And he in death was laid. 

And Traffan, a creature of bloody deeds 
And all devoid of shame, 

Ever servant to his master’s need, 

He stabbed Sir Hurdin’s dame. 

A minute had not passed 

While all this blood was spilt; 

In the hall Corlin’s followers gathered fast, 
Each with hand on hilt. 

Corlin called on Hurdin’s captain, Arlan Dur, 
“Quick, yield thee ere thou fall, 

Yield thee now without demur, 

Yield thee castle, mten and all. 

Yield thee and thou shall be castled knight, 
Honor thou shalt have and lands 
And much of gold and silver bright 
I will pour into thine hands.” 

“I will not yield,” said Arlan Dur, 

“Much rather would I fall, 

Than yield to any Corlin cur, 

And Corlin least of all, 

To Corlin we will not yield at all, 

We will fight though all is lost, 

Though we stand or in flaming castle fall 
We’ll pluck the flower of Corlin’s host.” 

Corlin’s army now was coming up 
From the woods of Coe, 

Captain’d they were by TJrran Drupp 
Who had long been Hurdin’s foe, 

But Hurdin’s captain, Arlan Dur, 

Had warning of the host, 

By clank of scabbard and jingling spur 
And crunching of the frost. 


Quick the iron cullis falls, 

Quick up went a thousand bows, 
To man the castle walls 

And red the beacon glows. 


227 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Up, up shot the beacon’s glare, 

Up went the fiery showers, 

Long and loud the bugles blare 
From Hurdin’s highest towers. 

From Hurd in to Apperlee 
Swift the summons went, 

From Cruddagh on to Capperclee 
Was the fiery message sent. 

And soon it was a thousand knights 
Toward Hurdin rode, 

Men all approved in bloody fights 
Under warlike kings abroad. 

And meeting by Hurdup vale 
Each lance and furniture, 

Men all clad in proved mail 
And completest armature. 

There the captains did agree 
The force to divide, 

That two armies there should be 
And assail from each side. 

One of these armies twain 

Was captained by Wandop of Apperlee, 

The other was by Lallan Dan, 

A knight of good advancement he, 

Corlin’s troops the battlements had not won, 

Though striving all through the night, 

Now came up the morning sun 
Setting all the field alight. 

Apperlee and Lallan Dain now came on with vigor. 
Rushing swift on Corlin’s flanks 
And with unsparing rigor 
The ax on armor clanks. 

Corlin from barricaded hall 
Knew his troops were flying, 

Had seen his best and bravest flying, 

Had seen them dead and dying. 


228 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Now he turned and said, “We must haste 
And that with great speed, 

If caught we shall in dungeon waste 
Or at avenging hand shall bleed; 

I would that Hurdin and his dame were yet alive, 
Also Sir Ruddam, Hurdin’s kin, 

With them in our hands we could contrive 
The castle yet to win.” 

A secret way had Corlin found, 

Now through this he led 
Down, down deep underground, 

Till he came to a river’s bed. 

Then plunging down into a pond 

Through water, stagnant, black and cold, 
Came up the castle far beyond 
Where woods about a pool enfold. 

Arlan Dur, Apperlee and Lallan Dain 
And also many more 
Strove for long in vain 

To break down the strong hall door; 

That door built to stand the brunt of war 
Was strongly assailed, 

With battering ram and pick and bar, 

Long ere they prevailed. 

With furious jolt and jar 

They worked an hour or more, 

When the last yielding bar 
Tumbled to the floor. 

Then were angry voices heard, 

“Fiends take them, they are gone, 

That black and foulsome bird, 

The Corlin Raven’s flown. 

Search ye through hall and bower, 

Search ye with diligence, 

From dungeon to topmost tower, 

And keep ye vigilance. 

Here is Hurdin’s lady dying, 

Here is Hurdin dead; 

Here is Sir Ruddam lying, 

From coward’s thrust he has bled.” 


229 



MU8INGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Dying, Lady Hurdin told 

How from the place the Corlin raven flitted 
As she in death was growng cold 

Told of the crimes Corlin had committed. 
Corlin’s flight was made with speed, 

He was not overtaken, 

By the fiend that urged him to the deed 
He was not yet forsaken. 

When ghosts of memories rise and mists of time 
dispel 

And oblivion’s veil is rent in twain, 

Then perhaps I’ll sometime tell 
A Corlin tale again. 

Not oft a Corlin tale is told 

They have grown so misty and so dim, 

For they are ages old 

And few perhaps know of them. 

They never have been writ in books 
And so are never read, 

But their spirits linger yet by limpid brooks 
On many a watershed. 

Dying is many an old time tale, 

Lost is many an ancient gem, 

Disappearing from hill and dale, 

The novel is killing them. 


ARDONELL 

When Corlin in conquest sought 
The lands of Carrantor, 

To the field he brought 

Thirty thousand men or more. 
Of them he made divisions four 
As seemed good to him 
Each man himself proudly bore, 
All full of fire and vim. 


230 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Corlin said, “To thee Uffban 
The center I assign— 

Do thou lead against Curdagh’s clan 
And assail him all along his line. 
Thrulga, thou my captain Uffban’s son, 

Do thou take the enemy’s right 
But till thy father the battle has begun 
Do thou keep from the enemy’s sight.” 

“Rulfrun, thou the left will attack 
And vigorously assail, 

Until Curdagh is forced back 
Ye surely will prevail.” 

And I around to his rear will reach 
And will entrap him quite, 

To proud Curdagh we will teach 
A lesson of Corlin’s might.” 

Uffban came on in full panoply 
And heavy graith of war; 

Emerging from the leafy canopy 
Of woods of Carrancar, 

Fiercely he charged on Curdagh’s front 
And so terrible was his might 
That unable to stand the battle brunt, 
Curdagh was yielding in the fight. 

He had with him Ardonell, a noble knight 
Who did to valiant deeds aspire, 

To force Uffban from the fight 
He crossed Morlin mire, 

He assailed Uffban’s left 
Right valiantly and well, 

Deep Uffban’s flank was cleft 

By the brave knight of Ardonell. 

Curdagh now being pressed on either hand 
Had to retire with speed, 

Not now could he make stand 
In hopes to succeed. 

Ardonell caused the foe much dismay 
When that impetuous charge he made, 

He did the renowned Uffban slay 
And the foe’s advance he stayed. 


231 



MV SINGS OF A S HEEPHERDER 


When Curdagh, thinking he was clear 
Of black Corlin’s net 
A sight that filled him with fear 
With his roving eye there met. 

Another army was coming on, 

Then Curdagli’s spirits sank, 

“Yonder cometh troops unblown, 

Eight on our flank.” 

“’Tis Corlin,” said Ardonell, “I know him by 
swing of leg and arm; 

I would that my spear could start 
The lifeblood reeking red and warm 
A draining from his heart. 

Right on him I will assail 

And trust to thrust of stubborn spear, 

To pierce his iron mail 
And do him deadly deere.” 

“Rash man, art thou frenzied, mad, 

To try such desperate chance; 

Among a thousand spears what chance be had 
For one single lance?” 

“I may succeed by luck, peradventure 
It will delay this Corlin host, 

My act is not one for censure— 

It is worth the cost.” 

Thou mayest escape to Carrantrace 

And array thine army on better ground, 

I know of no better place 
Can anywhere be found?” 

Ardonell straightway on Corlin charged 
And bore own Corlin and his steed, 

Around him quick the battle surged; 

His shattered spear served him not in need. 

Scarce could he put hand on hilt 

Ere heavy blows on his helmet fell, 

That was the last tilt 

Of the brave knight of Ardonell. 

In Corlin’s ranks was much delay, 

Corlin was lifted from the ground 
And to safe place was borne away, 

He had not received a mortal wound. 


232 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Curdagh had got to better ground, 

Protected well by ravine and cragg, 

No force could him surround 

About him for miles was moss and quag. 
Corlin’s armies attacked him oft in vain; 

They were thrown back with heavy brunt, 

Oft they were repulsed with many slain, 

They could only attack in front. 

Corlin knew that if his armies more loss sustained 
His doom would soon be sealed, 

Great was his danger if he remained 
He abandoned then the field. 

It was the lance of one brave knight— 

The Knight of Ardonell, 

That worsted Corlin in the fight, 

’Twas not in vain he fell. 


UM3ERFRANDVRAN 

'When Corlin invaded the Umberlands 
He had made great preparation, 

His battle with the League of Umber clans 
Is the theme of this narration. 

With an immense army he marched 
All glittering and bright, 

The chargers’ necks were proudly arched 

On noble steeds valiant men sat jauntily upright. 

A multitude of foot and horsemen 
Were in that Corlin host, 

There were Celt, Hun and Norsemen, 

Men from mountain and from coast. 

Bowmen with muscles tough as leathern thong, 
Strong men of sturdy build, 

Swiftly they moved along 

Unhampered by ax or shield. 

Gleaming in the sunshine, 

A forest there was of spears, 

Came flashing on line after line 
Dense as sedge along the meres. 


233 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Strange host composed of native and foreign bands, 
Their tread sets the earth atremble, 

Adventurous men from many lands 
In Corlin’s hosts assemble. 

Away they go over the rolling moor, 
lake sheets of billowy flame, 

With Corlin on a martial tour 
For conquest and for fame. 

And far over the treeless waste 
Their brazen armor gleamed, 

To watchers on hilltops placed 
Like a river of gold it seemed. 

Soon from out the moorland ghylls 
Another host appears, 

Deploying along the heathy hills 
And armed with clubs and spears. 

Little of gleam and glitter is seen 

As they spread over the moorland dun, 

Little they showed of flash and sheen 
Glancing in the sun. 

Corlin in his stirrups rose 
That he might further see, 

And cried, “Yonder are our foes, 

Short will the battle be.’’ 

Then he said, “Bold bowhien behold the foe, 

’Tis time your bows were bent. 

On, and speedily lay them low 
By deadly arrows sent! 

And ye, my gallant horsemen, 

Whether ye be Celt or Hun, 

Be ye Ibberie or be ye Norsemen, 

With ax and sword lay on. 

Now, spearmen, ye of Guntran, 

Thrust ye strong and deep, 

Drive back the Umberfrandvran 
As ye onward sweep.” 


234 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


A swift onrush in mad career, 

There comes the battle shock, 

The bite of arrow, of ax and sword and spear, 
The foes in wild tumult lock. 

The thud of weapons on the targe, 

The slithering slash of steel, 

The Umberfrandvran withstand the charge, 
Corlin’s lines backward reel. 

And forced they were to give way 

No matter how valiantly they wrought, 
Their utmost efforts could not stay 
The force against them brought. 

Corlin strove to rally them 
And to greater effort urged, 

That hostile wave to stem 

Which hard upon them surged. 

“My chivalry, ye men of fame, 

Go on and bear the gree, 

Will my noble knights take shame 
From ragged rabblerie? 

All ye who own Corlin lord, 

Rally at Corlin’s call, 

Ply ye ax and lance and sword, 

Charge ye, one and all. 

My noble captain, Brundbran, 

Charge with all the horse, 

Ride down the Umberfrandvran 
Like their native gorse. 

And ye, my gallant bowmen, 

Do ye to Corlin hark, 

Aim ye well at the foemen, 

And shoot ye to the mark. 

Spearmen, ye of Guntran, 

Thrust ye hard and fast, 

Press on the Umberfrandvran, 

Their resistance cannot last.” 


235 



MUSfNGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Celt, Hun and Norsemen 
Rallied at Corlin’s call, 

And many a gallant horseman 
Took his final fall. 

The bowmen shot with speed 

And were shooting to the mark, 

Many fell down to bleed, 

And many were lying stark. 

The lengthy spears of Guntran 
Were dripping red w r ith blood, 

But still the Umberfrandvran 
In stubborn battle stood. 

And now very hard they press 
On Corlin’s wavering van. 

The long strain brought distress 
To many a Corlin man. 

But Corlin cried, “Ye must not slack 
With Corlin’s fame at stake, 

On, gallant warriors, turn not back 
But greater effort make.” 

The Umberfrandvran still pressed on, 
The vigor of Corlin’s troops was spent, 
With their vim and vigor gone 
Their lines soon were rent. 

Very great was Corlin’s ire 

When he saw his lines were broken, 
And his troops began to retire, 

Then bitter words, were spoken. 

He flung on them many a curse 
And many a taunt and jeer; 

“Our meed could not have been worse 
Had I brought but children here. 

Turn ye about and face the foe, 

With ax and sword lay on, 

And deal ye them blow on blow 
Till all of them are gone. 


236 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


On, on, the combat do not slack, 

For ye are mailed men, 

On, on, till that rabble is driven back 
To their moorland den. 

Ye spearmen and ye bowmen, 

Are ye faint with fear? 

Ye act like clumsy plowmen 
Goading a lazy steer. 

Let your arrows fly in flocks— 

Follow them as they go, 

Have no fear of taking knocks 
From a half armed foe. 

Again on the foe they dash 

Like ocean on a wave-smit rock, 

Like waves they heave and surge and splash 
But the Umberfrandvran stand the shock. 

Ere the fury of the charge was spent 
From rearing and plunging horse, 

Many a bleeding warrior went 
Down to the trampled gorse. 

The bowmen shot well and fast 
But it was of little avail, 

The Umberfrandvran weather the blast 
Of the battle’s deadly gale. 

The gory spears of Guntran 
Thrust hard and deep, 

But still the Umberfrandvran 
Unbroken front they* keep. 

Charged well the horse of Brundbran 
And ax and sword laid on, 

But by the Umberfrandvran 
Were the battle trophies won. 

The noble captain Brundbran 
Fell fighting where he stood, 

And many a noted man 

Lay weltering in his blood. 


237 



MU8INGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Now Corlin was in great dismay 
As his troops began to yield, 

But still fighting on their backward way 
They sullenly left the field. 

The Umberfrandvran eager to complete the rout 
And end the campaign, 

Sought to encompass them about 
And renew the battle again. 

But so great their loss had been 
Their force was so diminished, 

That by their chiefs it was seen 
It could not thus be finished. 

But by pressing hard upon his rear 
And skirmishing day and night 

They could much the enemy wear 
And hurry him in his flight. 

Corlin rode among his men, 

Cursing he was and wrathy, 

Terrible he was to look on then— 

His mouth was red and frothy. 

“What! can ye not make a stand 
And this rabble hold at bay? 

We will be shamed throughout the land 
If we lose this day.” 

“Sire, it were better thou make haste 
Unto thine own domain, 

To raise what men thou may’st 
And with speed return again. 


Meanwhile we will fight the backward fight, 
Lest we be hemmed in hostile ring, 

But do thou hasten day and night 
And succor to us bring.” 

Corlin on his errand went, 

He knew there was urgent need, 

He was on vengeance bent 
So he made great speed. 


238 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


It was not long ere he came back 
With a numerous motley throng, 

But much provisions he did lack 
To make him safe and strong. 

His force was but half equipped 
Herders of swine and cattle, 

He felt like a bird) whose wings are clipped— 
He was unprepared for battle. 

Not strong enough to make a fight 
He must do something clever, 

Reluctant to take to flight 
So risky the endeavor. 

Yet his return gave respite 

To his army that had been contending, 
With the Umberfrandvran day and night 
In battle that seemed unending. 

Corlin said. ‘ The army I will divide. 

One part I will send among the hills 
Where they can in secret hide, 

Secure among the ghylls. 

One part after short battle will retreat 
And after it the enemy will draw, 
Luring them on to defeat 
Amd final overthrow. 

From out the hills our ambush men 
On their rear will come, 

The battle worn Ulmberfrandvran then 
Will surely meet their doom. 

I think this is a well conceived plan 
That will victor make us, 

Let the enemy think he can 

And he will surely try to take us.” 

A captain said, “Such plan I would not try 
For the enemy will surely see, 

Be the ground wet or dry 

There some tracks must be.” 


239 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Then another captain said, 

“I doubt if the plan will work so well 
If on the other part assault first be made 
The result needs no prophet to tell. 

But rather send our enemy kindly word 
That thou admirest a valiant foe, 

Their courage has in thee noble feelings stirred, 
And mercy thou wilt show. 

Offer them honors and high position, too, 

If their arms they will lay down, 

This a noble king well may do 
And fail not in renown.” 

Corlin could sometimes take advice 

And act as if the idea his own had been, 

So it was with message nice 

A herald w T as sent the hosts between. 

“If your arms ye will lay down 
And proclaim me king 
Ye shall have honors and high renown 
Within my knightly ring.” 

The Umberfrandvran long in council sate 
To consider the matter well, 

But after long debate 

What had best be done they could not tell. 

If the war should continue long 
There would be famine too, 

In numbers Corlin seemed more strong, 

Now what was best to do? 

Then up spoke Tharranbrod, 

An old man tall and gaunt, 

On many a field he had trod, 

No danger his heart could daunt. 

“I will to Corlin go 

To see what terms may be had, 

To him w'e must show 

Our plight is not so bad. 


240 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Of this Corlin I have heard 
His throne is not so secure, 

But in his mind may doubts be stirred 
And he will feel less sure.” 

Before Corlin soon he stood 

And his mission he made known, 

On what conditions they would 
Acknowledge Corlin’s throne. 

“Corlin, wilt thou acknowledge our chiefs 
If they accept thee king, 

And guarantee our rightful fiefs 
Among our native ling? 

And that we shall equal stand 
With others of thy realm, 

Dost swear this with thine hand 
Upraised above thine helm? 

Then with thee we shall unite 
And support thy throne, 

Increasing thee in strength and might 
Till thou beyond all kings hast grown. 

This to thee will thy great ambition bring 
And extend thy realm from sea to sea, 

The land with thy renown shall ring, 

No king so great as thee.” 

“Now what is this,” Corlin cried, 

“Dictate ye terms to me? 

Now tell me what would betide 
If I do not agree.” 

“Then with thy noble captain Brundbran 

And those gallant horsemen whom we put to rout, 
And the shattered spears of Guntran 
We will fight it out. 

And the army thou hast hidden 
Lurking among the hills, 

They shall be well chidden, 

Hunger sometimes kills.” 


241 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


“With hostile force behind thee 
Are thy prospects sweet, 

And noble Corlin, mind thee, 

Winter and hunger are hard to beat. 

There may be much of turmoil 
Within thy own domain, 

And thou mayest find it heavy toil 
To control the clans again.” 

“ ’Tis bravely spoken,” Corlin cried, 

“It shall be as ye desire, 

To be your king fills my heart with pride, 

Brave men I ever admire. 

But in his mind were different thoughts 
Which for the time he bides, 

And mutters, “ I’d slay them like moorland goats 
And tan their lousy hides.” 

It was not such conquest as Corlin loved, 

He loved to impose terms of his own, 

Yet it his greatest triumph proved 
And added most to his renown. 

When Tharranbrod returned and told 
How peace had been obtained, 

How much of their freedom had been sold 
And all that Corlin gained. 

They answered, “Tharranbrod, thou hast done well, 
The terms might have been much harder, 
Winter warring is most fell 
With an empty larder. 

We have got an overlord 
But we our rights retain, 

As thou hast pledged our word 
So shall it remain. 

A king may be a needless thing 
But kings they sometimes die 
So to hope we will cling 

And wait until the storm is by. 


242 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Nothing on earth endures 
But only for a time, 

Time brings ills, time brings cures— 

Ever goes time and tide ever comes tide and time. 

But so long as Corlin lives 
And to his pledge shall hold, 

We have but the choice that honor gives, 

To stay within his fold.” 


BRONE 

The time when Corlin was a king 
And sat mighty on his throne 

He did much disquiet bring 
Unto the men of Brone. 

Corlin, he had plans 

To increase the bounds of his domain, 

And subdue the independent clans 
That regarded him with disdain. 

For he regarded with bitter hate 
And as a vile unholy thing, 

A menace unto his state 

Those clans without a king. 

So he sent unto the clans of Brone 
A messenger austere, 

Bidding them swear allegiance to his throne 
Or suffer penalty severe. 

“For if ye hinder the raven’s flight 
Across the hills of Brone, 

Then shall ye feel the dreadful might 
That sits on Corlin’s throne.” 

Then the chiefs of Brone 
Together council took, 

Should they become vassals of a throne, 
Such insult should they brook? 


243 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Borlin’s chief, old Morgant, 

Was the first to speak, 

“Ye know of this new Corlin want, 

Will je give him what he seek?” 

“The raven is so greedy grown 
Will ye grant him his desire, 

Will ye yield up the hills of Brone 
And see your freedom expire?” 

I swear by the mane of my steed, Black Orion, 
And by my blade and spear, 

That for the raven of Corlin 
No roosting place is here.” 

Then spoke the chief of Brud, 

“To that I will agree, 

In these hills a king, has never trod, 

These clans were always free. 

We must do as our fathers did 
When ambitious kings came by, 

We must our best for freedom bid, 

And stand to do or die.” 

And spoke the chief of Bren, 

“For what we hold so dear, 

We our blood must drain 

To keep Corlin’s brood from here. 

And quickly we must act. 

And all the clansmen call, 

Then we must swear a solemn pact, 

Together stand or fall. 

Everyone who can a weapon wield 
Must muster the foe to bar, 

We must be ready in the field 
Ere Corlin moves in war.” 

Just then a mesenger came in haste, 

“Oh, chiefs, you are betrayed, 

A mighty army in the hills has Corlin placed 
For battle all arrayed. 


244 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Last night by banks of Carratrang 
And hill of Crellenpen, 

All the night the high cliffs rang 
To the tread of armed men.” 

A strong position Corlin had taken 
On hills high and steep, 

Nor could his hold be easily shaken, 

His position was easy to defend and keep. 

Steep and rocky the sides Crellenpen, 

And so was Camicoe, 

It was a fearful task for men 
Attacking from below. 

There was a valley lay between 
That widened a mile or more, 

Flashing waters could be seen, 

The Carnonock downward bore. 

The valley ends in a narrow gorge 
That opens to a level plain, 

The waters outward seethe and surge, 

Then flow smoothly on again. 

Creeping slowly and lazily 
They bend and turn again, 

The stream twisting, winding meandering mazily, 
Its way across the plain. 

At the gorge Corlin said, “Build here a dam 
And make for me a lake, 

For nobler fish never swam 

Than I will from its waters take. 

And to hold back the men of Brone 
Till it be filled to the brim, 

Gather ye hag and aged crone 
And men of visage grim. 

Strip ye them of their attire 
And give them lug and horn, 

Paint them in hues of blood and fire, 

Such as might fiends of hell adorn. 


245 



MU SINGS OF A 8HEEPHERDER 


See that they are painted and bedizened well 
As hillmen never saw, 

That they may look like fiends of hell 
To our mountain foe. 

And by single combat make delay 
Or by any other ruse, 

Do the day of battle stay 

Until the waters we can use.” 

The chiefs of Bren, of Brud and Borliiv 
Were in great dismay, 

When they learned the armies of Corlin 
Within their borders lay. 

In haste the clansmen gather 
Quick mustering was begun, 

There came the grey old father 
With the stripling son. 

Youths of hot and fiery blood 

Mingled with men of riper years, 

And flower of manhood side by side there stood 
Among their glinting spears. 

And all for battle well bedight 

Full of courage and high resolve, 

Ready and eager for the fight 
Or duty that might devolve. 

And the chiefs did much planning 
Of how it were best to assail, 

And learn the chance of outmanning 
And how they might prevail. 

Along the mountain front 

Where ground was rough and steep, 

They could not stand the dreadful brunt 
That would meet their upward sweep. 


But at the point where on the plain the hills abut 
If they could win the gorge 
And enter the vale with horse and foot, 

They then the foe could scourge. 


246 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


For from the vale rose gentler slopes 
Where horsemen well could ride, 

And there rested the clansmen’s hopes 
To break the invader’s pride. 

The clansmen move along the mountain’s base 
Where a crooked valley twines, 

Seeking to win a place 
Within the enemy’s lines. 

They halted, scarce two bowshots they stay, 
From the masses of Corlin men 
Who barred their further way 
By knoll and ridge and glen. 

There were bowmen where every cliff uprears 
To repel assailing ranks, 

And dense were the groves of spears 
That bristled the river banks. 

On hillsides boulders were piled ready to roll, 
Down on the approaching foe, 

Bowmen crowned every knoll— 

There were horse and foot below. 

Out upon an open space 

There rushed an uncouth crowd 
Of grotesque form and hideous face, 

Acting raucously ^nd rowd. 

There hideous hag and crone 
Whirled in impish dance, 

Before the astonished men of Brone, 

Like demons they leap and prance. 

As they plunged and swirled, 

As they howled and squalled, 

And as they turned and whirled 
The clansmen stood appalled. 

Great grew the clansmen’s fears 
As the wild dance it swings, 

And they noted horns and ears 
And huge bat-like wings. 


247 



MU SIN OS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


“Heaven help,” cried old Morgant, 

“What phantoms do I see, 

What power will cause them to avaunt 
If they of hell should be. 

Toraglan, thou art deemed wise, 

And oft good counsel thou hast given to me, 

I pray thee now advise 

WThat our course should be.” 

Toraglan said, “Send for old Trogmarth, the priest, 
And that with great speed, 

Lest our danger be increast, 

For we are in urgent need. 

If these men at our backs 
Be in as much of fear as I, 

When an army courage lacks, 

From it will victory fly. 

Methinks ’tis the deed of Trogarn, the charmer, 
Morbrekin’s wizard son, 

And not here by arms and armor 
May victory be won.” 

In haste for the priest they sent 
And quickly he came, 

Though now he was old and bent 
He had won martial fame. 

The priest had been a leader of warriors, 

A man of doughty deeds, 

For him religion held no barriers 
In doctrines or of creeds. 

Yet the old man of priestly craft 
Had learned just enough 
That he could either work a graft 
Or put up a bluff. 

Of his priestly power he was proud, 

Though his priestly power was slim, 

But the dancing of that impish crowd 
Never daunted him. 


248 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Said he, “Not by art of sorcerer or charmer 
Shall prevail beneath the sun, 

’Tis with arms and armor 

That battles should be won. 

I could not exorcise or cause avaunt 
These fiends from Satan’s den, 

By priestly prayer or chaunt, 

Unless ye were sinless men. 

But I will change them to bone, blood and flesh 
That ye may have mortal’s chance 
Let mounted men that crowd enmesh 
And use ye sword and lance. 

Go, deal to them deadly blows, 

And as your weapons swing, 

Ye will find they are but mortal foes 
And chattels of a king. 

Not by pattering prayer or sprinkling holy water 
Can ye this invasion stem, 

Today shall rule the powers of slaughter, 

Go on, and slay ye them.” 

Onward, then, the clansmen pressed, 

With savage thrust and slash, 

Till every naked painted breast 
Had received a mortal gash. 

Then to a warrior Corlin said, “Stay them yet 
awhile, 

Either by word or thrust of lance, 

That on our rank and file 
They may not yet advance. 

Soon will come the fall of night 
And our fires will be lit. 

Peradventure they will not attack till morning light 
When we shall be well fit.” 

Out between the armies a warrior rode, 

Mpst brilliantly and wonderfully arrayed, 

With jewels flashed the steed he bestrode, 

As if on holiday parade. 


249 



MU SINGS OF A SUEEPHERDER 


His apparel gorgeous in colors showed 

And was most gaily and daintily bedone, 
Horse and rider in splendor glowed 
In the light of evening sun. 

“What now,” Toraglan cried, 

“Such splendor dazzles mine eye, 

Never thus saw I a warrior ride 

Where men strive and bleed and die.” 

Uffragan spoke, “Tis Brodenbrulf, 

At Corlin’s court a man of high degree, 
’Twas he who slew the Weirden Wolf, 

That roamed Carullycree. 

The sight of him my arm hath nerved, 

He hath done despite to me 
We together with Barallan served 
In wars of Bannabee. 

If for battle he advance 
The combat falls to me, 

I carry a sharp and grounden lance 
To meet with such as he.” 

“Nay,” Toraglan said, “If for battle he hath come, 
Then he his choice will name 
And here will be a chance that some 
May win him death or fame.” 

“Ho! come forth, Uffragan Bryne, 

And break a spear with me, 

I have heard than wood that grows on Tarrantryne 
None may better be.” 

“I am here,” quoth Uffragan Bryne, 

“What would’st thou have of me? 

The wood that grows on Tarrantryne 
May be too tough for thee.” 

“Tush, thou vain conceited fool, 

What! darest thou try a bout with me? 

Thou wert fitter far with villeins tool 
Than weapon of chivalry. 


250 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


That thou art eager for the fray 
I cannot well believe, 

I have heard thou art often wont to stray 
On the battle eve.” 

“Brodenbrulf, I will thee slay, 

For death then get thee ready, 

Thy last combat is today, 

Then see thy arm be steady.” 

“What, Uffragan, think’st thy flabby arm can slay? 

Thou art but a mass of jelly, 

Thou can’st not a weapon sway— 

Thy back is but another belly.” 

Uffragan swore an angry oath, 

Bed glared his bloodshot eye, 

Spectators knew that one or both 
Would in the combat die. 

With harsh and rasping voice 
He spoke in uncouth tongue, 

It seemed but a choking noise, 

So deep and guttural it rung. 

It was a language his nurse had used, 

Language inelegant, but strong, 

He relapsed to it when his ire was roused 
And smarting under wrong. 

“Tha slennan slee ug na sleogh, 

Dha tean cean cenna ceag, 

Dhoilna cruadh eil na cheogh, 

Ehrinnen nuadhna tuan feag.” 

Brodenbrulf replied, “Understand thee I scarcely 
can, 

But I would answer soon 
If thou used the tongue of man 
Instead of wild baboon.” 

Uffragan cried, “Thou shalt be slain ill spoken foe, 
And thy carcass hung upon a tree, 

On thee the carrion crow and daw 
Shall have good feasting free.” 


251 



MU8ING8 OF A SHEE£HERDER 


Then each set his spear for battle test 
And each one spurred his steed, 

Each aimed at the other’s breast, 

Together they came with speed. 

It was so the battle chanced 

That Brodenbrulf spear should miss, 

From Uffragan’s shield it glanced 
With screeching spiteful hiss. 

Uffragan’s lance pierced his enemy’s breast 
And reached six hand breadths out behind, 
Brodenbrulf hung with drooping crest 
His arms about the weapon twined. 

Uffragan said, “In Corlin’s sight I’ll hold thee up, 
Perhaps he will give thee help, 

Now shalt thou drink the bitter cup 
And die, thou Corlin whelp.” 

While these two in combat met 
And Brodenbrulf was slain, 

At this time the sun had set 
And light begun to wane. 

Then Corlin’s fires were lit 

And the hills were flooded with light, 

Here and there dusky forms flit 
To feed the fires at night. 

For a bowshot wide a space was clear 
Along the Corlin line, 

Any who dared approach them near 
He his life would tine. 

For numbers of bowmen lurk 

In shadows that lay rocks and trees between, 
Who could do their deadly work 
And yet remain unseen. 

The clansmen thought it not wise to attack them 
then. 

In the treacherous shades of night, 

And hosts of hidden ambush men 
So unequal would be the fight, 


252 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


But at the morning light 
Early they were astir, 

And then in sudden flight 
The deadly arrows whirr. 

The tumult of battle then began 
And closely they engaged 
Determined and man to man 
Long the conflict waged. 

And rough and rude the blasts of stones 
Came hurtling down each hill, 

And knocked men down with broken bones 
And many a man they kill. 

The day coming to a close 

No advance had yet been made, 

The clansmen could not dislodge their foes, 
Though hard they assayed. 

Still to the hills the enemy clung, 

Still they held the river banks, 

No matter where the clansmen’s force was flung, 
They could not pierce those iron ranks. 

“Not here,” said Borlin’s chief, 

“Can we any advantage gain, 

Here if we persist, we come to grief, 

And our force be slain. 

His flank we must get around 
And on his rear must fall, 

We must assail from other ground 
If we win at all. 

But now the men must rest 

For very much they are worn, 

But we nnist be over the mountain’s crest 
Ere light comes in the mom.” 

Said Toraglan, “’Tis shorter by the lower way, 
And we will make more speed, 

To make haste ere break of day, 

’Tis level road we need.” 


253 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Morgant said, “I would not have Corlin see us go, 
Or he on our flank will fall, 

I know Corlin is a wily foe, 

And I would him forestall. 

Now, TJffragan, what dost thou opine? 

What way shall we take? 

Think well, for word of thine 
Shall our decision make.” 

“If Corlin’s army should on us fall 
And we must make a stand, 

I think ’tis well and fair for all 
To fight on level land. 

And we can see just as well 
What he intends to do, 

As by creeping by glen and dell 

These tumbled mountains through.” 

Darkness hung over them like a pall 

When the clansmen silently began their march, 
And drizzling rain began to fall 
From Heaven’s lowering arch. 

There was no wind, the rain dripped softly down, 
There was no noise pattering drops, it scarcely 
made a sound. 

Fog enveloped each like a gown 
And blanketed them around. 

But through the heavy darkness 
There were watchful eyes astrain, 

To pierce the misty murkness 
Of the shrouding rain. 

The plowed lands of the valley were soft with rain 
And the fields were deep in mire, 

Plodding through fields of sodden grain 
They soon began to tire. 

And they had made but little way 
So heavy was the going, 

When the night came near today 
And the dawn was showing. 


254 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


On a hill Gorlin took his stand, 

And grim was his smile, 

Then lifting up his hand 

Said to his captains “Wait a while.” 

Then he watched his foes 

With a greedy gloating eye, 

Like a cat with mouse beneath its claws, 

That is doomed to die. 

Waiting until the time should come 
To deal his deadly stroke, 

And let down the flood of doom 
Then would his dam be broke. 

Then cried Corlin from his height, 

“Now, break the dam and let the water down, 
And very soon in sorry plight 
Will our foes be plown.” 

Through the gorge the water gushed 
And tumbled out amain, 

High the muddy torrent rushed 
Far out upon the plain. 

Huge and gigantic was the wave 
That swept over the clansmen host, 

Ah! where was the power to save— 

They were surely lost. 

Some their armor doffed, 

With all the haste they might. 

While Corlin troopers jeered and scoffed, 

And mocked in huge delight. 

Old Morgant on Black Orion rode 
But quickly they went down, 

Over them the water flowed 

That so muddy was and brown. 

They were carried far down the stream, 

But Black Orion he was strong, 

Morgan heard many a dying scream 
As they were swept along. 


255 



M USINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


At length they reach higher ground, 

Morgant was sorely spent, 

That he was not drowned 

His thanks to heaven he sent. 

Then said, “Not here with arms and armor 
May there be glory won, 

By the deed of Old Trogam the charmer 
We are all undone.” 

Corlin troopers were riding about 
Along the water side, 

Slaying those who struggled out 
As the waters now subside. 

Morgant mounted on Black Orion 
And rode across the land, 

With many a curse on* Corlin, 

Till he reached the ocean sand. 

Corlin’s men were following fast, 

But Black Orion had great speed, 

And Morgant to safety was borne at last 
By his gallant steed. 

For within a sheltered bay 
And very near the beach, 

He saw there a vessel lay 

And speedily within his reach. 

He embarked with Black Orion 
And he sailed away, 

Not many escaped the clutch of Corlin 
To tell of that day. 

Of Bren, of Brud and Borlin, 

The dead afar were strown, 

And the banners of Corlin 

Waved over the hills of Brone. 


256 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


RONDALIN 

When Corlin rested from his wars 
And sought the pleasures of peace, 

There is one thing his happiness mars 
And prevents his joys increase. 

In his mind a thought there came 
That troublesome oft had been, 

He a king of great power and fame 
Was a king without a queen. 

So to his courtiers he made known 
What was in his mind, 

Was there among them any one 

Who for him a fitting mate could find? 

One to sit with him upon his throne 
And when to them children came 
There should be a son who when to manhood grown 
Would perpetuate his name. 

Who would succeed to his domain 
And keep it all intact, 

And maybe other lands and honors gain 
And suitable laws enact. 

There were mentioned many names 
At home and over the seas, 

Of highborn and Avealthy dames— 

But they failed to please. 

Corlin said, “1 will have none such, 

Are there none who better favored be, 

For I like not overly much 

Such plainness in a wife to see.” 

“Then sire,” Croglinnan said, 

“May it be pleasing unto thee, 

I knoAv of a well-favored maid 
Such as men seldom see. 

“She is the Lady Rondalin, 

So matchless is she of form and face, 

That she Beauty’s prize would win 
In any crowd or place.” 


257 




MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Said Corlin, “This maid I must see 
If such beauty she possesses, 

Then a fitting mate is she 
For our kingly caresses. 

Daughter is she of Cumdavock’s lord 

Who dwells beyond the bounds of our domain, 

Make haste to send him word— 

We journey thither with all our train. 

To see her we will speedily start 
On our way to Cumdavock, 

Already with my heart 

She has made great havoc.” 

He started for Cumdavock tower 
As eager as a boy, 

Thinking on arrival at the lady’s bower 
What words to employ. 

But he must journey on through many days 

Through lands where reaving clansmen roam, 

Through hard and dangerous ways 
To reach her father’s home. 

A messenger had been duly sent 
To apprise Cumdavock’s lord, 

Who straightway to his daughter went 
To find if she’d accord. 


“My daughter, Corlin is on his way 
To woo thee for his queen, 

’Twill not be safe to say him nay, 

Right dangerous it would be, I ween. 

He is a king of great power and strength 
And heavy is his hand, 

His arm is of great length 

And reaches far throughout the land. 

Now, daughter, what wilt thou do, 

With this suitor who comes to thee? 

’Tis seldom kings come to woo 
A maid of thy degree.” 


258 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


She answered, “Corlin I will not wed, 

He is so steeped in sin, 

Though he wears a golden crown on his head, 
He is no mate for Rondalin. 

I know a brave and noble man 
Who hath won the golden spur, 

Kin he is of Hurdin clan, 

His name is Arlan Dur. 

Hie is a noble and gallant knight, 

And feats of arms has done, 

Comely he is to my sight 
And he renown hath won. 

Together we pledged our troth last night— 
Not now in fickleness will I begin 
On a noble man to put a slight— 

He weds with Rondalin.” 

“But daughter, Corlin is an avengeful king, 
If he think that we his offer scorn, 

It will much trouble to us bring 
With war the country will be torn. 


For less he has driven people from their homes 
And numbers have been slain, 

Now think thee well ere Corlin comes 

And answer so that in anger he comes not again.* 

“I will answer so that in peace he go 
Nor will he soon return, 

And no unfriendlines will he show 
Nor suspect that we his offer spurn. 

Leave all to me, my father dear, 

It will be better far, 

I will answer that when Corlin goes from here 
He comes not back in war. 

And father, that thou may not spoil my plans 
It were better thou be not here. 

Go thou, journeying among the clans, 

Or else to hunt the deer. 


259 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


But I think it were better for thee to herd the goats 
By the hill of Cumdragon 
When Corlin goes ’tis in my thoughts 

To meet thee by the wood of Ochnastragan. 

Which I will do when he hath gone 
And all of danger is past, 

Leave this matter to me alone, 

If faith in me thou hast.” 

“Now, daughter, it shall be as thou sayest, 

To manage well I think thou art most fit, 

And well I hope thou mayest 
I trust thy woman’s wit.” 

He to the hill of Cumdragon went, 

Though he was puzzled sore, 

As to his daughter and her intent, 

But for the time all questioning he forebore. 

Kondalin for her maidens sent 

That to them her plans she might unfold, 

She made known to them her intent 
And promised them much gold. 

“But this I know you will do for love of me, 

And the welfare of the clans, 

For they will be brought in great jeopardie 
Through failure of my plans.” 

Rondalin, namesake thou of mine 
On thee I must rely, 

For skill and wit of thine 
To tide us safely by. 

Corlin thou must receive and entertain 
As daughter of Cumdavock’s lord, 

While he and retinue here remain 
With the best we may afford. 

And smile on him with thy sweetest smiles, 

Warm welcome let his be, 

And do thou use thy subtlest wiles 
To draw his thoughts to thee. 


260 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Do thou seem so very keen 

That the less may be his desire, 

Corlin seeks not so much for a queen 
As means to quench his lustful fire. 

I from his sight will keep 

And of me ye must not speak, 

That we may not have cause to weep 
Or feel the raven’s beak. 

Tell him thy father has gone to hunt the deer, 
The fattest that may be found, 

That Corlin at our board may have good cheer 
And viands shall abound” 

When Corlin to Cumdavock came 
Such welcome he received 
As befitted his royal name 
And fame he had achieved. 

Rondalin, the maid with kindly smile 
Was ready to welcome him, 

Offering to him the while 
A cup filled to the brim. 

“Drink, noble king, to the castle’s lord, 

Today he hunts the fattest deer 
That Corlin may fare well at our board 
While he sojourneth here.” 


Right royally did Corlin dine, 

So regal was the board, 

So plentiful, so excellent was the wine 
As royal house might afford. 

Corlin and his knights of chivalry 

After the banquet drank fast and deep, 

And spent the night in revelry 
While the maidens were asleep. 

“What thinkest thou of the Lady Rondalin?” 

Asked a courtier libertine, 

“Will she thy royal favor win, 

To perpetuate thy line?” 


261 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Corlin replied, “Croglinnan must have been blind 
And his judgment all askew, 

To send us here a wife to find, 

A homelier face I never knew. 

He hath sent us on a journey vain, 

Yea! on a fruitless chase, 

Never saw I a woman half so plain 
Ah! I shall dream of that face. 

Yet she is of queenly shape 
And full of supple grace, 

Ah! if her body she’d undrape 
And cover up her face. 

Then perchance I could take her in my embrace, 

For the lady hath a charm, 

If I could but forget her face, 

To her my blood would warm. 

That fool hath sent us hither 

From pleasures we could have well enjoyed, 
Now may his body wither 

That we’ve been so annoyed. 

Tomorrow we will return 

Croglinnan shall hear of this, 

I’ll warrant that his ears will bum 
Though not with words of bliss.” 

When Kondalin heard of their intent 
She begged of them to stay, 

“What, my lords, can ye not rest content 
To bide another day? 

My father has not yet come back, 

I fear he hath been waylaid, 

Are your rules of chivalry so slack 
As to leave an unprotected maid? 

Forth with you I will ride 

If you care to join the chase, 

There are steeds and hounds well tried, 

Each well suited in its place.” 


262 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Thought Corlin, “This silly maid is so vain 
As to think 1 will succumb to her charms, 

No woman with face so plain 
Could I take in my arms. 

I know she fain would have us stay 
For such is her vanity, I wieen, 

I know ambition can a woman sway, 

She desires to be Corlin’s queen.” 

But he answered, “Sweet lady, seek not our delay, 

For events have transpired, 

That urge us to be on our way, 

At home our presence is required. 

As mark of our respect take this gemmed golden chain, 
There be no gems so bright as thine own sparkling 
eyes, 

But fair lady seek not us longer to detain 
We must haste where our own rallan flies. 

To thy father we will convey 
Word of our intent, 

Not now may we delay 

When weighty affairs doth our mind torment.” 

The Lady Rondalin had planned so well 
And thought of each possible event, 

But tricks of fate a human can’t foretell 
Her plans went a little bit asclent. 

Of curiosity she had a woman’s share, 

From turret window she watched with careful eye 
The courtyard and crowds gathering there 
Where Corlin’s pennons fly. 

Hither and thither men hurrying go, 

Champing and pawing steeds make noisy din, 

When Corlin glancing upward saw 
The face of the Lady Rondalin. 

In haste he w r ent to the turret stair, 

His journey all forgot, 

The sight of that face so beautiful, so fair, 

Sent his heart’s blood surging hot. 


263 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPIIERDER 


Soon they stood face to face, 

Lady Rondalin was in great confusion, 

So surprised to see Corlin in that place, 

So unexpected was the intrusion. 

“Art thou the Lady Rondalin, 

The fair Lady of Cumdavock? 

Art thou of the noble kin 

And lineage of Cumgavock?” 

She looked on him with startled eyes, 

Great w'as her agitation, 

What plan could she now devise? 

Short was the time for cogitation. 

She answered, “My name is Rondalin, 

I serve the Lady of Cumidavock, 

And I may be of noble kin, 

My father is named Cumgavock. 

Sometimes he is by Cullincotes, 

Sometimes by vale of Travock, 

My father herds the goats 

For the Lord of Cumdavock.” 

“W’hat! a goatherd’s daughter, thou, 

Nay, do not tell me so, 

Never had’st thou that face, those eyes, that brow, 
From one so mean and low.” 

“But, Sir Knight, that which is proud and high 
In what is humble and lowly may begin, 

And the goatherd you pass scornful by, 

May be your distant kin.” 

“Now in truth that is well said 

The goatherd’s kin I would be proud to own, 
WTio hath a daughter like thee fair maid, 

Thou are worthy to share my crown. 

I would give half my land 
To take thee in my arms, 

And I would tine my right hand 
To embrace thy charms. 


264 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Yea! I would deck thee braw 
In silks and jewels fine, 

And I would be thy slave, I trow, 

For one sweet kiss of thine.” 

“Now, fie! Sir Knight, cease thy sport, 

And do not jest with me, 

But to my mistress pay thy court, 

She is of high degree.” 

“Nay, thy mistress is good of heart, 

With many sweet graces she is endowed, 

But she’ll not make the warm blood leaping start, 
Or stir the heart to beating fast and loud. 

But thou would’st stir the frozen flood 
To its internal deep, 

And quicken the sluggard blood 
Till it boil and leap. 

But make thee ready now in haste 
That we may soon be gone, 

The precious moments do not waste, 

For we must journey on. 

Nay, lady fair, deny me not, 

My heart thou hast stolen, 

Thou hast set my blood seething hot 
With fire than can’t be tholen.” 

“Sir Knight, I must say thee nay, 

Such act would bring us woe, 

I cannot go with thee this day, 

And leave my mistress so.” 

“Nay, but it shall be so, 

Or else with fire and sword, 

I will speedily work great woe 

For Cmndavock’s tottering lord.” 

“But, Sir, there is a very able knight 
Who rides on Trinnock side, 

If we should happen in his sight 
I fear that he would chide.” 


265 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPRERDER 


“I have with me many able knights 
Who have striven well in rivalry, 

And proved themselves in many fights 
Best of my chivalry. 

And think’st thou that one lone knight 
Our onward way could bar? 

He must indeed be man of might 
To match a king in war.” 

“But if thou were challenged by one lone knight 
Could’st thou the boon deny? 

If thou did’st decline the fight 
With whom would honor lie?” 

“Nay, it is not for royal hand 

To hold lance ’gainst errant knight, 

When any lord of my band 
Could meet him in the fight. 

And before there is a call 
To set my lance in rest, 

He must overthrow them all 
And prove himself the best.” 

“Now, tell me in very truth, 

Art thou indeed a king, 

I betook thee for some gay youth 
Of vain imagining.” 

“Fair Lady,” said he, “’Tis not my youth 
That will bring reproach to me, 

Though I would it were forsooth 
That such the case might be. 

It was the search for a mate 
That did me hither bring, 

For the welfare of our state 
For I am indeed a king. 

Of me maybe thou hast heard, 

Corlin is my name, 

I knew not thou had’st no word 
Of me, or why I came.” 


266 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


“Wlhat! art thou really Corlin,” she said, 

“That king of far known fame, 

Who for himself a kingdom made, 

And gave to it his name?” 

“Lady, it was my father’s name before ’twas mine, 
And a place long the name has borne, 

Held by lords of our line 

Since first the raven plume was worn. 

When it was told at our court 
That we desired a queen, 

Old Croglinnan, a gossipy sort, 

Said, ‘Lady Rondalin is the most beautiful ever 
seen.’ 

Croglinnan must have been mistaken, 

Though how I do not understand, 

For if anything his interest doth awaken, 

He seeks information on every hand.” 

“O King, there came here a noble from thy court 
When we maids played at make-believe, 

Which we sometimes do for fun and sport, 

Without thought to deceive. 

And our lady being away, 

As hostess then I played, 

So did the other maidens play 
While here this noble stayed.” 

“Ah! now to me it is plain 

How Croglinnan’s mistake came about, 

When so fair a lady did entertain 

That it was the Lady Rondalin he did not doubt. 

But make thee ready for the road, 

That we may soon be moving, 

By nightfall we will be far abroad, 

We will spend the night in loving.” 

“Kay, gracious king, it must not be, 

In truth I really dare not, 

For there await for thee and me 
Perils of which thou ’ware not. 


267 



M USINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


For there is a spectre who rides 
All clad in dreely grey, 

And lie claims among his brides 
Those maids who go astray. 

There never was man who could fight 
And vanquish one so grim, 

For he practices some eldritch sleight 
On those who strive with him.” 

“Now, that is but an old wife’s tale, 

Told to frighten silly maid, 

But with a man it is of no avail 
M;en are not so easily gainsaid.” 

“I will not go with thee today 
And leave my mistress so, 

Yet tomorrow I journey may 
When there be few that know. 

Tomorrow my father herds the goats, 

On the hill of Cumdragon, 

And I visit him by the upland cotes, 

Above the woods of Ochnastragan.” 

“Then to thy mistress I must tell some tale 
As reason for our delay, 

At the thought I almost quail 
Yet something I must say.” 

The supposed Lady Rondalin lie sought 
To tell of his change of plan, 

Of a fine excuse he had thought, 

He pretended to be a sickened man. 

“Ah, Lady Rondalin, apology I make, 

We cannot journey as was our intent, 

I suffer so much of pain and ache, 

My body is in torment.” 

“Noble king be this as your home, 

Have all the comfort that you may, 

Not often here a royal guest hath come, 
Right welcome are you to stay.“ 


268 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Next morning Corlin’s journey began, 

H:e was early on the way, 

And was a very impatient man 
He started ere break of day. 

For him, the Lady Kondalin 
In patience did await, 

With a knight of noble kin, 

A mile outside the gate. 

It was the faithful knight who spoke 
“Behold, yonder they come, 

I will meet thee this day by Turquil’s oak 
And thence escort thee home. 

“But now ’twere better I be not seen, 

By any Corlin eye, 

So I will hie me where green woods screen 
Till they be passed by.” 

Kondalin had made her plans 
And made them with great skill, 

That to the kindred clans 
There should come no ill. 

Corlin was a happy man that day 
He was in pleasant mood, 

And many a merry roundelay 

Went ringing through the wood. 

As by Turquil’s oak they turned 
An uncouth rider came 

His glowing eyes they burned 
With slumberous sullen flame. 


He was very tall and gaunt, 

His steed was gaunt and long, 

What could such dismal creature want, 
That gay cavalcade among? 

Sombre hued was his mail 

Over him hung a mantle grey, 

That seemed to have weathered many a gale, 
Its edges were much afray. 


269 



MUSINOS OF A 8HEEPEERDER 


At Corlin’s right hand he rode, 

But never spoke a word, 

As his oonev steed onward strode, 

There clanked a rusty sword. 

In silence mile after mile 
The grim rider rode, 

Every- voice was hush’d the while, 

None knew what might forbode. 

When Corlin could no longer stand the strain 
Then the silence broke, 

He tightly gripped hs bridle rein 
And to that grim rider spoke. 

“Who art thou so like a spectre grey, 

Who imbidden rides by me, 

Thine every motion doth betray 
Thou art of Elderie. 

That gaunt and lengthy form 
Might that of Serpent be, 

Thine eyes glow like the glinny worm, 
Unfriendly thou art, I see.” 

Then the Spectre did his visor lift 
And his face he bared, 

And through the open rift 
Two eyeless sockets stared. 

Then he raised aloft 

An arm long and thin, 

And he his helmet doft, 

And he showed a skull without a skin. 

Then answered, “I am he who rides 
After maids who go in sin, 

And I shall claim among my brides 
The fairest Eondalin. 

Tomorrow thou and I will fight 
And one shall gory lie, 

To be food for crow and kite. 

But they will pass me by. 


270 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


And the prize that I shall win, 

The fairest in thine eye, 

With the Lady Rondalin 
Away then I shall hie.” 

“I will not fight thee, eldritch knight, 

No honor could I gain, 

Against thy eldritch sleight 
All valor would be vain.” 

“Corlin, before all thy knights 
Thou wilt fight with me, 

Thou never can endure such slights 
As I shall heap on thee.” 

Said Corlin, “Take thy fairest Rondalin, 

And haste thee to be gone, 

If ever she went in sin 
To Corlin ’tis unknown.” 

“Now Corlin, shalt thou freely go, 

I will not thee molest, 

To thee could come only woe, 

From a love unblest. 

But if ever again as lovelorn wight 
Thou should’st hither ride, 

Then ’ware thee of an able knight 
Who rides on Trinnock side. 

If thou would’st prosper well in love 
Then hark to my behest, 

Never take thou a turtle dove 
To warm a raven’s nest. 

And Corlin, if ever thou answerest battle call, 
Beware of Hurlin plain, 

There shall a king and kingdom fall, 

Nor be set up again. 

Then he turned his charger long and thin, 
He waved his gloved hand, 

And with Lady Rondalin 

He left the astonished band. 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Then by the brow s of Cummerdew 
Rode down a woodland glade, 
And Corlin never knew 

The trick that had been played. 


URGAL ROO 

Urgal Roo had joined the chase 
Along with Elland Droon, 

And they had gone to Cammertrace 
And woods of Cummerbroon 
Well they had done their part with sword 
and lance, 

On fields of Rallandune, 

And taught the Corlin clans 
To dance to Hurdin’s tune. 

Corlin had been forced to flight 
And he felt much aggrieved, 

His army had much despite 
From Hurdin’s kin received. 

Now Corlin w r as on Hurlin plain 
Striving his army to increase, 

For he knew^ that Hurdin kin never again 
Would allow him to live in peace. 

Urgal Roo and Elland Droon 
Were parted in the chase, 

The day was past the noon 
And night coming on apace. 

When Urgal met with Rullin Bran 
Who wounded w as and sore, 

And he was a dying man 
And he sad tidings bore. 

To bring tidings to Urgal Roo 
Quick did Rullin ride, 

How Sir Rugul Broo 

Had stolen Sir Urgal’s bride, 

There it was that Rullin died, 

A valiant man and true, 

He died with his master by his side, 
Retainer he was of Urgal Roo 


272 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Then Urgal rode all the night, 

He rode to Hurlin plain, 

Eager he was Sir Rugal in death to dight 
And bring his bride again, 

Then came Elland Droon 
Seeking Urgal Roo, 

Just as the light of rising moon 

Pierced woodland shadows through. 


He found the body of Rullin Bran 
And much he was concerned, 

That it was Sir Urgal’s man 
Very soon he learned, 

“Why hither hath Rullin come,” 

Thus Sir Elland thought, 

‘‘It must be that from Urgal’s home 
He hath ill tidings brought.” 

“Hence he has gone with speed, 

From that I now divine, 

That of his presence there was urgent need 
And may now be in need of mine.” 
Straightway he left the spot 
On his way to Castle Roo, 

Sounding his bugle mot 
To call his huntsman, too. 

When to Castle Roo he had gone 
And had the tidings heard, 

“That now to me the truth is known 
He hath to Hurlin spurred; 

He has gone to Hurlin plain 

As any brave knight would do, 

To bring back his bride again 
And slay Sir Rugal Broo.” 

“There are ten thousand Corlin knights on 
Hurlin plain 
And he hath gone alone, 

I fear his errand will be vain, 

And now wliat can be done.” 

To Wandop of Apperlee 
The tidings then he bore, 

This rash knight is in great jeopardie 
And will return no more. 


273 



MU8INGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Said Wandop, “Take a thousand men 
And hurry to his need, 

And I with all the army then 
Will come on with speed.” 

When Elland came to Hurlin plain 
Corlin’s camp was in great disarray, 

Many chiefs of the Corlin train 
Were speeding fast away. 

Elland accosted a herdsman near, 

“Wiry among Corlin clans this haste? 

Why go they hence from here 
When by no enemy chased?” 

“Hast not heard that Corlin ’s dead, 

Slain by TTrgal Roo, 

Hast not heard how that good knight’s 
sword hath sped 
The soul of Rugal Broo? 

Sir Rugal he cut twice in twain 
Ere he fell to the ground, 

Sixteen others too, were slain, 

They lay in a ring around. 

Sir Urgal was weak and wearing low 
And very soon must fail, 

When Corlin with a heavy blow 
Sought him to assail. 

But Urgal leapt upon his ring of dead 
And with a sweeping blow, 

He struck of Black Corlin’s head 
And laid the Raven low. 

No more on Corlin height 
Shall the Raven nest, 

]>eep in the dust his plume is dight 
And Corlin is the Devil’s guest. 

There Sir Urgal fell among those he had slain, 
It was there he breathed his last. 

From wounds that gaped amain 
His blood was pouring fast.” 


274 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


“Thou sayest sixteen others, too, were slain, 
But say escaped not some, 

Who will do evil deeds again 

Who have yet to meet their doom.* 

“There were ten knights who did assist 
In this deed of shame, 

Their names shall be writ in the list 
With those of blacken’d fame.” 

The names of those miscreants I would have 
That they may not be forgot, 

For me the only boon I crave 

Is from knighthood to remove this blot.” 
Corlin dead, the Corlin realm was rent, 

And no shield of Hurdin kin 
But had been well besprent 
With blood of Corlin kin. 

Those ten knights were caught and flayed, 

The hide of each was hung upon his gate, 
They were thus displayed 

To warn others of their fate. 


DEATH OF CORLIN 

At the time when Rugal Broo 
Stole the bride of Urgal Roo 
And carried her away; 

When the tidings to Urgal came 
His heart with anger was aflame 
And desire to slay. 

Hot and furious was his ire 
He vowed vengeance dire 
On Sir Rugal’s head. 

So eager was his haste and hate 
That though the day was growing late 
He mounted and forth he sped. 


275 



MUSINOS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


It was at close of day 
He left Storton Stay 

Wihere Wandop’s pennons flew. 

And rode through the night 

To Hurlin hight 

Where Corlin’s bugles blew 

There on Hurlin plain 

Many a knight by him was slain. 

To clear his way to Rugal Broo. 

He met Corlin knights in shining phalanx, 

He bore down knight and charger in their ranks 
As he rode through. 

When he came to Rugal Broo 
Right in his face he threw 
His gaunt and gage. 

So strong the arm of Urgal throws 
The gauntlet broke Rugal’s nose 
And carried him to the ground. 

Sir Rugal rose in frenzied rage 
And quick in battle did engage 
In combat to the death. 

Never was fiercer combat in any field 
Sparks flashed in showers from sword and shield, 
Others watched with bated breath. 

Rugal’s heavy sword downward swung 
On Urgal’s upraised shield it rung 
With clamorous clang; 

Glancing from Urgal’s shield 
The shattered blade went far afield, 

Hurtling through the air it sang. 

Through iron mail the sword of Urgal rips, 

Cuts off Sir Rugal by the hips, 

Such strength on the blow was thrown, 

That blow rung his death knell 
But again ere Rugal fell 

He was cleft from helm to pelvis bone. 

And Rugal fell in pieces four 

Mid shattered mail and weltering gore— 

A bloody sight. 

That was the end of Rugal Broo 
By the strong arm of Urgal Roo 
His death was dight. 


276 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


“If there be any here of Rugal’s kin 
Or any that will condone of Rugal’s sin, 

Let him stand forth. 

Here alone and undismayed 
With my body and my blade 
I’ll prove his worth.” 

None there were who sought to fight 
A man of such valor and might 
And knight like Urgal Roo. 

Till Corlin cried, “Will you let this braggart bird 
Cowe you with vaunting word, 

This idle braggadoo! 

Will you let this jackdaw stand to mock 
And pluck feathers from the raven’s flock? 

On him, ye Corlin knights! 

On him, with bared blades, 

Send him to the ghostly shades, 

Stand not such slights.” 

Sir Otran, knight of Darrandar, 

Renowned for noble deeds and acts of war 
That much honor and fame did bring, 

Valiant deeds and feats of arms he ever did admire 
But coward acts ever roused his ire, 
lie scorned an ungenerous thing. 

“Nay, sire, not may arms of state or clan 
Be employed in cause of dishonored man, 

Of Corlin realm this the sacred law. 

Sir Urgal is a noble and valiaint knight 
And has slain his despoiler in fair and open fight, 
It were shame not to let him go.” 

“On him,” Corlin cried, “To him who cuts him down 
I will bestow the fairest land that lies beneath my 
crown 

And the best castled hold.” 

Many on Sir Urgal rushed. 

Hard they upon him crushed, 

To bear down that warrior bold, 

Many the act did much blame 
As a blot on knightly fame 

And from the conflict drew aside. 

For so it was by hand or blade 
They could not give Sir Urgal aid 
That was by knightly oath denied. 


277 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


They were sworn not in feud or fight 
To injure or assail any Corlin knight, 

And so they took no part. 

Urgal was a man of stalwart mould, 

On helm and breast his blows were told 
And oft did the lifeblood gushing start. 
Wounded he was and sore beset, 

Bravely he the murderous charges met 
Within a ring of dead. 

Not long could that battle last 
His strength was waning fast 
From many wounds he bled. 

That he strove to conceal 
By adding weight to dulling steel 
He knew that he was lost. 

He mounted on the ring of dead; 

He knew his strength was nearly sped, 

►So heavy had been the cost. 

Then with a sweeping blow did sneck 
Corlin’s head from Corlin’s neck, 

And then gave up the ghost. 

When through the land there came 
Wasting it with pillage and flame 
A mighty host. 

Not any dwelling high or low 
That escaped the invading foe 

So were the chronicles of Corlin lost; 
But traditions linger yet by hill and dale 
Perhaps revived awhile in some old tale 
And then again forgot. 

Sometimes you will find rich store 
Of ancient legendary lore 
In some isolated spot. 


278 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


THE SHEPHERD’S SONG 

Up and away with the light of morn 
And let the time go by, 

Nought care we for foolish scorn, 

Naught care my dog and I. 

Ho! we sing to the wind of morn, 

We sing to noonday sky, 

Ho! to the time when stars are bom 
And grey twilights die. 

Away, after the bleating band, 

Let the time go by, 

Away we go over the sagebrush land 
Together, my dog and I. 

Away over the wrinkled hill 
Along the rocky bluff, 

Ever our song we trill, 

Be the way smooth or rough. 

Oft we look with dreamy gaze 

Over the landscape greeny grey, 

Till in the distant bluey haze 
The green fades away. 

And we sing to the breeze of morn, 

We sing to the noonday sky; 

We welcome the time when stars are born 
And grey twilights die. 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


RICHARD OF ELDERLEA 

No more the big hall door 
For him is swinging free 
In Inglewood he hunts the stag and boar 
To feast his friends and he. 

Strong was his arm to draw the bow, 

A right good marksman he, 

Many a stag was, laid low 
By Richard of Elderlea. 

Where branches swing 

He invites his friends to dine, 

And fare on choicest venison of the king 
And pledges him in wine. 

Of what’s the king’s I’ll have my will, 

The king shall have what is mine, 

Of his best venison have your fill, 

And drink liis health in wine. 

There shall be plenty at my board 
Whenever you come to see, 

The best the forest can afford 
To feast my friends and me. 

To furnish us with good cheer 
Inglewood shall never fail, 

I’ll take out many a good fat deer 
And bring in many a cask of ale. 

Whenever you come this way 
My good company you shall be, 

The king shall not say “Nay” 

To Richard of Elderlea. 

He has put a stranger in my father’s hall 
Even so, let it be, 

The luck of the forest shall befall 
To Richard of Elderlea. 

The warden paced his hall 
In a much disturbed mood 
Over certain things that did befall 
In the forest of Inglewood. 


280 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


He had heard that gossipy tongues 
Were busy with his name 
How he permitted sundry wrongs 
Unto the good king’s game. 

What if it to the king’s ears should come 
W(hen tongues wagged so free 
Might he not lose his home 
And suffer in his degree. 

If he were removed from his post 

It would be a blow to his fortunes then 
All chance of honor and emolument lost 
Through acts of lawless men. 

So he resolved in the forest to ride 
With following a good strong band 
And every effort should be tried 
To take these rogues in hand. 

He resolved of his arbitrary power 
He would give a right stern sample 
That would make the villains cower 
One good lesson would be ample. 

So into the forest he rode 

With following a numerous throng 
That were well spread abroad 
All vigilant and strong. 

Not far had the warden gone 
Before he saw quite plain 
That poaching had been done. 

And good fat deer been slain. 

For from bough of oak tree hung 
As fat a deer as hunter ever slew 
It had not been there long 
The signs were so new. 

Now but this is an unpleasant sight 
Who may the reiver be; 

I’ll warrant ’tis that lawless wight 
Richard of Elderlea. 


281 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPRERDER 


If I but had him here 

Right short his shrift would be 
I’d teach to kill our good king’s deer, 

This Richard of Elderlea. 

From the wood a hunter came 
In pleasant mood seemed he. 

He said, “Ah here is royal game, 

A good fat carcass seemeth it to me.” 

“Sir Warden, slaughtered deer 

In these woods thou mayest often see, 
They serve to furnish good cheer 
To Richard of Elderlea. 

And if thou had’st him here 
Vain would thy teaching be 
I know full well to kill the deer, 

I am Richard of Elderlea. 

Against thee twenty shafts are set 

Twenty good strong bows are bent on thee 
Thou mayest rue the day thou met 
With Richard of Elderlea. 

So Sir Warden, turn thee now about 
And hasten thou away 
Or thy followers’ we’ll put to route 
And many we shall slay.” 

The warden was discreet and wise 
He turned, what better could he do 
He said: “For this misprise 
Thou shalt dearly rue.” 

“Sir Warden, haste to get thee gone 
And do not make delay 
Further parley thou had’st better shun 
Or thou will rue this day.” 

The warden returned to his tower 
A wrathy man that day 
At such defiance of his power 
In such humiliating way. 


282 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


And he was vexed with many fears, 

And thoughts of how to explain this thing 
When it came to the royal ears 
Of his grace, the king. 

The warden fuming in his rage 
Resolved his honor to retrieve 
And in a big hunt to engage 

To capture the villains who did so boldly 
rieve. 

So he rode out like a valiant lord, 

About to work his will 
Attended by men armed with ax and sword 
And men with bow and bill. 

Lawless men had provoked his ire 
By killing the king’s good game 
And now terror to inspire 
With armed men he came. 

Such severe punishment would the rascals 
dree 

They would not forget forever; 

To hang each outlaw on a tree 
Would be his great endeavor. 

To him a horseman rode and drew rein; 

He was strong and brown and lean 
He glanced at the warden’s train 
And guessed what it might mean. 

“Ho, Sir Warden, whither art bound 
With such brave array; 

I wot ’tis not with horn and hound 
Thou seek’st thy pleasure this day. 

I see lusty men clad in mail 
And armed with bow and bill 
Metliinks thy company tells the tale 
That thou art out to kill. 

I think thine errand will be of little avail 
The forest is not safe place for thee 
If encumbered with thy mail 

Thou meet Richard of Elderlea.” 


283 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


The Warden cried, “I know thee well, 

I will show how I answer such as thou. 

Tonight thy soul shall lodge in hell 
And thy body dangle from h. bough.” 

“Good Sir Warden, by yonder wall 
Fifty good strong bows are bent 

Thou knowest what would befall 
If the shafts to thee were sent. 

And Warden, talk thou not of hell 
Until I explain this thing, 

It is not for thee to tell 

What fruit a bough may swing. 

I have that to say which altereth much the case 
Betwixt thee and Richard of Elderlea; 

I have been appointed warden in thy place 
And the king hath sent for thee. 

From what I have heard I wot 
He thinks not well of thee 

Since thy parting shot 

With Richard of Elderlea. 

So along the Southward road 
Do thou go journeying 

To find how favors are bestowed 
By his Grace the king. 

If for proof thou dost seek 
Behold this signet ring, 

And say, does it not bespeak 
The word of our good king.” 

The warden on journey went 
Away to London town 

To learn of the king’s intent 
His spirits much cast down. 

When to the king his tale he told 
The king laughed aloud. 

‘“Ho! ho, Sir Warden, bold, 

With much wisdom thou art endowed. 


284 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


To me thv tale sounds very queer 
I never sent for thee: 

Nor did I ever hear 

Of Richard of Elderlea. 

I trow a right good warden he will make 
And he shall have thy place, 

A trusty messenger shall journey take 

And appoint him warden by Our Grace.” 

So a messenger rode to Inglewood 

To make known the king’s good will. 

He found Richard in hospitable mood 
And of good cheer he had his fill. 

Then his errand he made known 
And spoke in friendly kind, 

His heart was completely won 
So well he had dined. 

“To thee, Sir Richard, greeting from the king 
I bring 

To make known his pleasure and intent 
Behold this, his signet ring 

This message by me he hath sent.” 

“Do thou take what is thine own 
Leave what is mine to me, 

Be thou just unto the crown 
Sir Richard of Elderlea. 

And that which is mine 
Thou must defend for me 
And in all that which is thine 
Thou will protected be. 

I trust thine honor as one might 
Who hath heard of thee 
I know thou art good and able knight, 

Sir Richard of Elderlea. 

When the messenger returned 

He with Richard’s answer came 
“Good king, thy will I have learned, 

I will protect thy game. 


285 



AIUSING8 OF A SHEEPHERDER 


What is tliine and what is mine 
In good care shall be 

And thou be pledged often in good wine 
By Bichard of Elderlea.” 

Then the king asked, ‘‘What manner of man is he 
W'ho was called fierce outlaw? 

What like is Bichard of Elderlea? 

’Tis that I wish to know.” 

“His arm is strong as oaken bough, 

His heart is free as water flowing 

Of fine presence near as thou, 

A man well worth knowing.” 

Then said the king, “I gauged him right, 

A man who will be true 

A man of good faith and honor bright 
That will ne’er cause me to rue.” 


JIM 

Some say Jim was bom on the range 
Or somewhere there about 

And that he always acted strange, 

Of that there is no doubt. 

The powers that presided at his birth 
Had never consulted Jim; 

There was nothing on the earth 
That ever suited him. 

He had punched cows and drove stage 
And sometimes herded sheep 

He sometimes got in a rage 

That would make muleskinners weep. 


Already, I think I’ve told 
That he was rather queer 
Whether the weather was hot or cold 
He cussed the atmosphere. 


286 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Whether a thing was good or bad 
Or just halfway between 
Just one standard of comparison he had 
As plainly may be seen. 

Whether it was case of sadness or mirth 
Do I need to tell 
That to him everything on earth 
Was just the same as ‘hell.’ 

What was right or wrong 
Never bothered him a bit 
If he wanted anything belonging to weak or 
strong 

He just made use of it. 

Said he ‘‘Life is but a chanceful thing 
If you want anything, just net it. 

The only to do that, by jing 
Is to get the chance to get it.” 

Says he, “It is just a matter of biz 
If you want a thing just hook it.” 

So Jim naturally regarded a thing as his 
And he simply took it. 

Yet Jim was not a thief 
He never did any sneaking 
Seeing anything he needed, he’d take it just 
as lief 

But never went a-seeking. 

His takings he never denied, 

The rights of property he never learned 
When summoned across the Great Divide 
He was quite unconcerned. 

Take anything belonging to him 
He would not resent it 
Everything was right to Jim 

Knowing no wrong, he could not repent it. 

Outside of Kingdom Come 

He was truthful as they make ’em. 

And he was a very good chum 

His friends he’d never forsake ’em. 


287 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


GETTING THE HAT 

She told him all about the hat 
And in what store she saw it, 

She told him the price, and that 
Was right that he should know it. 

He didn’t enthuse a little bit, 

He wasn’t interested 
There wasn’t a bit of doubt of it 
His mind was rather congested. 

His thoughts were coming slow 
His answers had plainly shown it 
When he answered hum, haw or is that so 
Any one might have known it. 

She talked about that hat some more 
Over and over again explained it 
Still he answered as before, 

Her point, she had not gained it. 

That hat is a gem of all creation 
Oh! it is so exquisite 
But he devoid of all imagination 
Simply said, “Is it?” 

She wound up with “That’s all I ask 

I want it quick before somebody gets it” 
Said he, “If there’s an impossible task 
It’s surely you that sets it. 

A refusal of anything to you, my Dear, 

I simply hate to word it, 

I hope you will be reasonable; See here 
I really can’t afford it. 

Oh! but I must have that hat, 

I just simply need it, 

When I make such a slight request as that 
Oh! how can you not heed it. 

She wanted that hat, God knows, 

But she didn’t have the money, 

So she goes through her hubbie’s clo’es 
He didn’t think it funny. 


288 




BY RICHARD FORSTER 


When he missed his wad 
He was in a hurry, 

He got so all-fired mad 
His mind was in flurry. 

Something she said and some he thought 
He was violent and gusty 
While for the lost wad he sought 
H,is throat was getting dusty. 

As the good missus was away 
Visiting a neighbor 
It didn’t matter what he might say 
So he continued his labor. 

And diligently he made search 
Amongst articles so many 
He turned over soap, bluing paddles and starch 
But didn’t find a penny. 

He hunted high and hunted low 
But failed to discover it 
Tired, he sat down, but didn’t know 
That he was sitting over it. 

Feeling that he wanted a drink 
And wanted it so badly, 

That his tummy began to crink 
And he got acting madly. 

He got up and kicked the chair 
And yelled, “Go to thunder 
The hiding place was laid bare 
The wad was sticking under. 

The imps of chance are everywhere 
And show up many a blunder; 

When he kicked over the chair 
He found the lady’s plunder. 

He hurried out to get a drink 
Before he should get drier 
His inwards had begun to shrink 
And felt like baling wire. 


289 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


What crime is meaner or worse 
Or lowers a man so soon 
As to steal a lady’s purse 
And go to a saloon. 

He had got that money spent 

And his inwards were a-soaking 
With himself he was well content 
And much inclined to joking. 

He was jovially inclined 

And indulged some in smoking 
Also he relieved his mind 
By doing a lot of talking. 

Feeling very big and fine 

Home to his spouse he went, 

When he thought it was about time to dine 
Yes, indeed, he was well content. 

The lady’s suspicions jumped awake 
When she saw he had been boozing 
Of that there could be no mistake 
The fumes from him were oozing. 

She looked for her hidden store 
It wasn’t where she bestowed it 
Then maybe she was sore 
And maybe she showed it. 

Of course she was rather floored 

WJhen she found she had mislaid it 
She thought a big cuss word 

But of course she never said it. 

She caught up a frying pan 

And confronted that poor geezer 
He was a much astonished man 

When she slammed him on the beezer. 

She declared she would have that hat 
Or there would be something poppin’ 
And he’d better take a tumble to that 
Or she’d keep him a lioppin.’ 


290 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Unless the frying pan should bust 
She would do him up a proper 

Get her that hat, he must 

Or he would come a cropper. 

Vigorously she used her tongue 
Alternating with thumpin’. 

She got him to the point ’ere long 
Where he agreed to do sumpin’. 

She impressed it on him hard and fast 
That it must be done immediate 

She’s use the frying pan long as it would last 
His efforts to ex^ediate. 

If he didn’t do it on the dot 

She’d show how she could beft him 

And he would have a hard and cruel lot 
If she up and left him. 

Do I need to tell you that 

He got it just to please her, 

She had a fine new Easter hat 
And he a damaged beezer. 


A FISHIN’. 

I’ve worked so goldamed hard 
An’ kept this hoe a-swishin’ 

An’ now let me tell you pard 
I’d like to go a-fishin’. 

I tell you that this farmin’ stuff 
Is a real hard proposishin’ 

Seems the nations never get enuff 
An’ I can’t go a-fishin’. 

With a man’s liberties it just plays hob 
To live under this condishin 
I’ll quit an’ get another job 
Where I can go a-fishin’. 


291 



MV SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


I’ve worked an’ swet to beat all tarnasliun 
An’ I’ve got a strong suspishnn 
Things are built on a wrong foundashun 
When I can’t go a-fishin’. 

Sometime I’ll take a holiday 

An" send the nations to perdishun 
’Tain’t right for ’em to eat an’ gorge away 
When I want to go a-fishin’. 

This feedin’ of the nashuns 

An’ this talk of high and lofty mishun 
But adds to my vexasliuns 
When I want to go a-fishin’. 

An’ all of this dodrotted tomlnyrot 

Of providin’ the world with provishun 
What satisfaction has a fellow got 

When he’s kept workin’ all the time, in¬ 
stead of goin’ fishin’. 

A fellow must be one doggonyd fool 
To live this life of inhibishun 
An’ let a golblamed farmin’ tool 
Prevent his goin’ fishin’. 

City folks can go to see the movies 
Or anything they’re wishin’ 

An’ have a good time with the chickies an’ 
the dovies 

While I can’t even go a-fishin’. 


JULIUS CAESAR 

When to Dad Speezer was born a son 
He called him Ebenezer 
Neighbors said, “Wonder where he got that one, 
The old bugbitten geezer.” 

Of course they referred to the name 
And not unto the kid, 

In some old book he’d found the same 
But none knew where he did. 


292 



15Y RICHARD FORSTER 


The old man liked the sound of it 
It was somehow a teazer 
And it surely seemed to fit 
A sweet boy like Ebenezer. 

When again to the Speezer home 
Amid a lot of fuss 
Another son had eome 

The old man called him Juliuss. 

But mother this time rebelled, 

There is no such name said she 
No such name w T as ever spelled 
And never ought to be. 

But the old man was stubborn as a mule 
And he would not give in 
He had as much brain as a molecule 

And considered it a serious sort of sin 

To yield to a woman’s whim 
In any sort of way; 

When a woman could dictate to him 
It was a nice time* o’ day. 

But the parson reasoned with that old cuss 
And with some trouble taught him better 
Said the name was Julius, not Juliuss, 

So he cut off one letter. 

The boys grew up much like other boys 

Till in age the eldest was nearing twenty 
With occasional squabbles and some noise 
But dad furnished them with work a-plenty. 

Often he had been heard to say, 

The best way to keep young heads from get¬ 
ting dizzy 

Was don’t let ’em have too much play 
And keep them awful busy. 

By some the plan may be admired 
But sometimes it irked 
Whenever the boys got tired 
Then they always shirked. 


293 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


And tliey contrived in many a way 
To keep tlie old man busy 
Watching that they did not play 
That his head was getting dizzy. 

As they through boyhood grew 
The one called Ebenezer 
Contracted the habit, harmless it true, 

Of swearing by Julius Caesar. 

Julius didn’t like it, so direct to the point he came 
For he found it rather wearing. 

He said, “Eben, can’t you find some other name 
By which to do your swearing. 

As Julius is your brother’s name 
It would be decent of you to stop it 
It is a silly habit, just the same 

And it would be wise of you to drop it. 

There after it became a pleasure much enjoyed 
Such was the perversity of Ebenezer 
When he found his brother was annoyed 
At his swearing by Julius Caesar. 

And he did it as often as he could 
At any time and in any place 
Such as Julius Caesar, that is good, 

Julius Caesar, that’s bad, Julius Caesar, that’s 
the case. 

Julius learned a lesson from that, 

He made no remonstrance any more 
He gave it up, lie quit it flat 
But of course he was sore. 

He made up his mind to wait 
And even it up some day 
So when Ebenezer took a mate 
Things began to come his way. 

But Julius had to wait a few years 
Maybe it was four or five 
Before his great chance appears 
But the grudge was still alive. 


294 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


For you' see the annoyance had not ceased 
It was still a pleasure to Ebenezer 
And his brother he often teased 
By saying .Julius Caesar. 

Eben took his none too gentle mate 
To live in his parent’s home 
There developed a rather unhappy state, 

Matrimonial troubles settled on Eben’s dome. 

Mrs. Eben became a husky termagant, 
Amazonian she was by nature, 

She had courage that Eben couldn’t daunt 
And she exceeded him in stature. 

They had a little family tiff 
Where Julius could hear it 
He heard many a bang and biff 
But he didn’t go near it. 

Eben was beaten, trembling and cowed 
He hollered, help, Julius seize her 
He hollered oft, and hollered loud 

But there was no help for poor Ebenezer. 

When he tried to get away 

Then she always balked him 
When he strove to stand at bay 

Then she grabbed and choked him. 

He yelled long and loud for help 
And called Oh! Julius seize her 
Julius unmoved by every yelp 
Gave no aid to poor Ebenezer. 

Julius didn’t care a rap 
How the conflict ended 
He didn’t join in the scrap 

For that he may be commended. 

The Missus had Eben down upon his back 
And she gave him a clawing 
With now and then a hearty smack 
Interspersed with jawing. 


295 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


At disadvantage lie was held 

All his efforts couldn’t feaze her 
In his frantic terror he yelled 
Oh! Julius, Julius, seize her! 

With tooth and nail, she gave him a nailing, 
It was tough on poor Ebenezer 
Gurgling, choking, sobbing, he was wailing, 

J uliooliyool ioolieezer. 

On his back that poor wretch was lying 
Still trying to escape her 
How he did with coat tails flying 
Is hard to put on paper. 

He had stopped calling on Julius Caeser 
And all such Homan gentry 
Help only came to Mr. Speezer 
When the police made their entry. 

The Missus was hard in pursuit 
Following with a cleaver 
She was eager to /end the dispute 
He was anxious to leave her. 

He stumbled and fell on the floor 
He couldn’t get any furder 
The police broke in the door 
While he was yelling murder. 

He was picked up and put to bed, 

Fixed with bandage and with plaster 
On such places of his body and head 
That had met disaster. 

Ebenezer was groaning in bed, 

His face covered with many patches 
He had some bald places on his head 
And also many scratches. 

He was attended by a nurse 
And made to take a tonic 
Yes, he was feeling rather worse 
Of that assault cyclonic. 


296 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


When asked how he got into such a scrap 
With the redoubtable Mrs. Speezer 
And got beat in such a shape, 

He mumbled, “Julius would’nt seizer 

Now everybody thought he said 
Julius wooden Caesar, 

But the reply he really made 

Was, “Julius wouldn’t seize her.” 

Eben squinted at w r here Julius stood, 

Who didn’t seem to worry 
Not at all, about his dear bud; 

Didn’t even seem sorry. 

“Why didn’t you help me in my need? 

Of Julius querulously, he queried, 

“A fine brother you are indeed, 

You’d like to see me buried.” 

Julius stood by his brother’s bed. 

Said he, “Get this good advice I’m giving, 
When in a fix, instead of calling on the dead 
Call upon the living. 

When calling on that old Roman gent, 

By name of Julius Caesar, 

How should I know that you meant 
To call on Julius Speezer. 

That was a habit that you had 

And it seemed to give you pleasure 
If it has let you in some bad, 

It is your ow r n fault in a measure.” 


Julius w r as smiling in his sleeve, 

Perhaps he kept something shady; 

He murmured to himself, “I don’t believe 
In interfering with a lady.” 

When any unpleasantness ensued 
Between any one and Ebenezer 
He v r as always promptly subdued 
If they said Julius wuoden Caesar. 


297 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


In all the following years 
That came to Ebenezer 
It never once appears 

That he said, Julius Caesar. 


LET THE CHILDREN PLAY 

By fields and woods 
Let the children play, 

The little tender buds 
May be flowers some day. 

Let the children listen to songs Nature sings 
And rejoice with her the liveling day, 

The works of Nature are holy things 

‘Mong works of Nature let the children play. 

Their steps by hedge and wall 
Nay, do not try to stay, 

Noi* yet confine to hearth and hall, 

In freedom let the children play. 

About the old church door 
Let the children play; 

Upon the old church floor 
Let the children play. 

Even at the altar by divinest glory crowned 
Let the children play, 

For where the happy child is found 
God is not far away. 

It is not the hymns you sing 
Or yet the prayers you say, 

That greater praise to the throne will bring 
Than a little child at play. 


298 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


A REVERIE 

Once I had a hope, a fond, fond hope 
Of something that was to come 
I had a dream, a fond, fond dream 
That I would have a home. 

But now the world seems cold and drear 

And long delay has made my heart grow chill 
Now I have a fear, a gaunt grim fear 
That I never will. 

There was one in years that are past 
Who I dearly wished my hope to crown 
But the grave a shadow cast 

And my dearest hope went down. 

No more in the glint of golden sun 
That fond hope will bloom 
And the world looks drear and dun 
In chill December gloom. 

Over my world falls a numbing chilliness 
At fading of the light 
And on me falls heavy stilliness 
Beneath the brooding night. 

I live in my lonely bachelor ways 
I hear no loving voice that cheers 
Yet through gathering gloom of ageing days 
Gleams the love of my youthful years. 

And the one loved in years by gone 
Is still my best beloved today 
The only love my heart has known 
Is lying in the clay. 


299 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE STREAM 

Down the mountain side 

Between fretting boulders twining 
Through cool dark nooks to slide 

And flash out where light is shining. 

Rushing through rocky cleft a rumbling 
Romping and roaring roisterously 
Headlong over ledges tumbling 
Foaming, brawling boisterously. 

Bounding from rocks rugged and stern 
The flashing jewels toss 
Over the fronds of tufted fern 
And beds of matted moss. 

Splashing the flowers that nod 
Over the waters brink 
Gliding past the grassy sod 

Where animals come to drink. 

Then by some secluded pool 
Sometimes it seems a resting 
Then emerging from shadows cool 
It goes on its questing. 

Sometimes gliding through open glade 
Sometimes from a gorge it sallies 
Making its way in sun and shade 
Threading through the valleys. 

Now gleaming, glooming and glancing 
Slipping past bush and tree 
Winding, wavering, advancing 
Searching for the sea. 


300 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


FOR YOU AND ME 

Workers of the earth, fliers of the air, 

The sailors of the sea 

And the toilers everywhere 
Have all built for me. 

The waving of banners, the glinting of spears, 
The striving of the free 

In the struggle of the years 
Have all been for me. 

The tramp of soldiers marching, 

The triumphs of the free; 

The span of the rainbow’s arching 
Have all been for me. 

The rejoicings and the tears; 

Singing of winds, the voicings of the sea 

And the motion of the spheres 
Have all been for me. 

The deeds of all the ages 
Great and little as they be 

And the world’s immortal pages 
Are all for you and me. 


THE MOORLAND 

Coaid is the wind that sweeps 
Ower the desolate moor 

And comfortless the watter dreeps 
Doon by the cottage doo-ar. 

Low an’ heavy hing the cloods 
Ower the sodden heath 

Black and savage are Wlinter’s moods 
When winds bare their teeth. 

But ah! when t’ heather’s in bloom 
It is a different seet 

When noo an’ then shadows swoom 

I could watch frae mwum till neet. 

Yes, I could stand an’ leuk away 
Far off to the fells; 

On a sunny August day' 

Hoo sweet the moorland smells. 


301 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


EVERYTHING FOR THE OLD MAN 

Sonny, you are very young as yet 
An’ need a guidin’ lian’ 

And you’ll be guided right you bet 
If you listen to your Old Man. 

Always think of your parent first 
That’s law since Life began 
An’ never let the pangs o’ thirst 
Torture your Old Man. 

Always see his pipe is filled 
And also fill his can, 

Or else you’ll find the beans are spilled 
And a very cross Old Man. 

And see he has enough to eat 
Plenty in can an’ pan 
An’ you’ll find life is sweet 

When you are good to your Old Man. 

An’ Sonny, you’ll grow good an’ wise 
That is the truth, I “Swan,” 

If you do as I advise 

An’ be good to your Old Man. 

An’ Sonny, see you do not drink 
That’s one thing I must ban, 

From labor you mustn’t shrink, 

Work hard for your Old M!an. 

Sonny, this is the right path to choose 
Always follow this plan 
Do not touch the Booze, 

Leave it for your Old M)an. 

An’ from duty do not swerve 
Through all your alloted span 
An’ show you’ve got the nerve 
To stick to your Old Man. 


302 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


An’ you’ll be rich and great, 

An’ have honor too, I “Swan” 

An’ be an ornament to the State 
An’ a blessin’ to the Old Man. 

An’ be sure there never lacks a drop 
O’ something in his can 
Or you’ll knock out the last prop 
From under your Old Man. 

Now, Sonny, be sure that’s what you do 
As far as ever you can 
An’ be help an’ comfort to 
Your dear lovin’ Old Man. 


NEW YEAR’S GREETING 

May New Years bright and many 
Come to thee and thine, 

Though of thy friends the humblest of any 
’Tis the dearest wish of mine. 

May every morn that comes thy day to greet 
With health and happiness shine 
And bring thee pleasures and memories sweet 
And blessings most divine. 

Whether on the prairie with the sheep 
Or threading the wilding forest maze 
Or climbing the rocky steep 
Or winding mountain ways. 

Old friends, I’ll never forget 

To them my heart will never grow cold 
Until to Nature is paid the debt 
That is owed from times of Old. 

Closely as the ivy clings 

I cling to old friendships still 
Among the favors fortune flings; 

To thee, be Peace and goodwill. 


303 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


WHEN WAE WILL HAVE PASSED AWAY 

When shall have passed all cause for strife 
Handed down from days of yore 

When people live a peaceful life 
And war shall be no more. 

When over a contented world 
The dove of peace is brooding 

And every battle flag is furled 
With no threat of war intruding, 

Vain hope, it will not last, for men will beat 
The ploughshare back into a sword again; 

So will contending armies meet 
And cover fields with slain. 

When to a lone, lost earth 

The moon and stars have bid a last good night 

When there is no death and no birth 
And none are left to fight. 

When, of life, everywhere is dearth 
And there is no night or day 

And winds blow over a tenantless earth 
Then war will have passed away. 


THE EMIGRANT TRAIL 

It is a relic of other days 

When western states were young 

When Indians rode the open ways 
The grey sagebrush among. 

And emigrant trains crawled their way 
Through the lonesome lands, 

Often held at bay 

By roving Indian bands. 

Those people to hardships inured 
Of heart they were so bold; 

How they suffered and endured, 
Among them were young and old. 

They have passed; they have died 
Yet the trail remains 

It is graven on the moimtain side, 

We see it in the plains. 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


THANKSGIVING 

I am thankful this day 

For blessings in rich profusion 

How thankful I cannot say 
In this mild effusion. 

Thankful that children come to play 

And leave my things in rank confusion 

Till belief in elf and fay 
Seems no longer a delusion. 

When children come as is their wont 
To play around my dwelling 

I am thankful that they don’t 
Burst the roof with yelling. 

When they indulge in shrill, discordant cries 
And other kinds of noise; 

Leaving behind a mess of mud-cake and pies 
And a jumble of ragged toys 

I am thankful they have not been as bad 
As might have been expected: 

In fact I am almost glad 

To remove the rubbish they’ve collected. 

And still to God above 
Be my thanks ascending 

The God who shows His love 
In blessings He is sending. 


305 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


ON HILLS OF MEDICINE BOW 

If you’d see the wooly ones, the wooly ones, 

If you’d see the wooly ones as they go 
They wait till day dawns, day dawns, 

Wait till day dawns on hills of Medicine Bow. 

If you’d see landscape lines, land lines, 

The land lines undulating high and low 
Wait till the sun shines, the sun shines, 

The sun shines on hills of Medicine Bow. 

If you’d see the silhouette of pines, tall pines, 

The tall pines against the western glow 
Then wait till day declines, day declines, 

Wait till day declines on hills of Medicine Bow. 

If you’d see the billowy rolls, billowy rolls, 

In lines that seem to flow 
Then wait till snow falls, snow falls, 

Wait till snow falls on hills of Medicine Bow. 

If you’d see color in grand tones, grand tones, 

In grand tones on a world of snow 
Then wait till day dawns, day dawns, 

On hills of Medicine Bow. 


BESIGNED 

I long to see those lips smile again 

And sunshine of happiness warm thy heart 
And the dark shadows of pain 
From thy eyes depart. 

But if nought can thy grief assuage 
Or bring thy heart some ease 
If sad thoughts that thy mind engage 
Will not let thy mourning cease. 

Then may the God of Dreams 
On thy slumbers smile 
And bear thee from Care’s turbid streams 
By Elysian founts to rest awhile. 


30G 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


And gloomy skies that over thee frowned 
With shining stars be strewn 
Till the grey world that walls thee ’round 
Shall yield a rosy dawn. 

And through the mists of all the years 
The glorious light will shine 
To illumine all thy soul most endears 
And the most precious gift be thine. 

More cruel remembrance is we find 
It the harder to forget 
But the heart can be resigned 
And still remember yet. 


AMONG THE SAGEBRUSH GREY 

Where the range against the horizon is spread 
Illumined by the sun’s levelling ray 
I see the lonely herder tread 
Among the sagebrush grey. 

Around him w r ind straws nod 
And bushes gently sway 
As he communes with God 
Among the sagebrush grey. 

Hush’d are sounds; no jarring of noise 
When his souls in silence would pray 
And mute is his voice 

As he stands among sagebrush grey. 

Hie worships in a temple so vast 

Of such grandeur as no art can portray, 

The silence has a spell over the soul of him cast 
As he worships among sagebrush grey. 

Unencumbered by earth things that are 
His soul will wander away 
Wander perhaps to worlds that are far 
While he stands among sagebrush grey. 

His soul he recalls: some inward monitor tells 
His sheep are beginning to stray 
He knows by sound of the bells 
Scattering among sagebrush grey. 


307 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


PASSING OF SUMMER 

What has become of the summer sweetness, 

The green grass and flowers, 

The shadows that passed with fleetness 
And the cooling showers.. 

Through regions vast and airy, 

The mournful wind sings on, 

Over billowy sweeps of prairie, 

’Tis gone, gone, gone. 

The summer clouds kept drifting 
Till all have drifted past, 

The sullen clouds now uplifting 
Foretell a wintry blast. 

What is this sobbing and sighing? 

That seems to come from everywhere, 

What mean those white flakes flying? 

That seem to fill the air. 

It is the sigh of the old year dying, 

He must go, go, go; 

You see the airy spirits flying 
To cover him with snow. 

O wind, can you not bring back the mazy dancers 
Instead of flakes of snow, 

But the mournful wind answers. 

No, no, no. 


THE TRAITOK 

He was a scout and guide 

And he was kin to the Indian race, 

Of Indian blood just a trace 
But it swelled in angry tide. 

He thought of the Indian’s wrong; 

He nursed treachery in his heart, 

And he acted the traitor’s part 

Though he joined the weak against the strong. 

Then his career was not long; 

He stood in beads and buckskin drest, 

The rifles levelled at his breast 
And sang the Indian’s song. 


308 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Even the soldiers held their breath 

As a challenge from his lips was flung, 

And with defiance on his tongue 
He stood to meet a traitor’s death. 

From the eastern sky he turned his face away 
Though the rising flush 
On tree and bush 

Was the light of a new bom day. 

He sang the song the Indian sings when his day is done; 

When he stands to meet his fate, 

And spirit steps await 

To lead him to the setting sun. 


WYOMING’S HILLS ARE DEAR TO ME 

Wyoming’s hills are dear to me 
I have loved them long, 

Long may they be near to me 
To fill my heart with song. 

To climb her terraced hills 
Up to the scented pine 
The heart with feeling fills 
Feeling of the Divine. 

The scattered boulders lying about 
In wild confusion hurled 
Are fragments without a doubt 
Of what God built the world. 

To tread the flowery sod 
Where soft breezes fan, 

There the throne of God 
Seems nearer unto man. 

I listened when winds were hushed 
In sweet and holy calm 
And melody of birds outgushed 
In God adoring psalm. 

Wyoming long as thy sun shall shine 

And thy winds the song of freedom sing 
May thy children regard each hill of thine 
As a sweet and holy thing. 


309 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


AROUND A SAGEBRUSH FIRE 

There may be a time in freezing clime, 

When cold means danger dire, 

But you can scoff and laugh it off, 

If you have a sagebrush fire. 

You may be riding range and weather change, 

And horse and man may tire, 

But you’ll find pleasure in good measure, 

If you have a sagebrush fire. 

It may be your luck to be stuck, 

Wlhen roads are deep in mire, 

But you can bet you will comfort get, 

If you have a sagebrush fire. 

You may be far from your goal and things may ball, 

In a way to rouse your ire, 

But it will seem a joke when you enjoy a smoke, 

By a sagebrush fire. 

You may be old and the night be cold, 

And far from your desire, 

But many a wight has passed the night, 

By a sagebrush fire. 

Believe it, you safely can, by many a good God-fearing man, 
And many a cheerful liar, 

There’s many a whopping story told in spite of storm and cold, 
Around a sagebrush fire. 


310 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


THE ARCHAEOLOGIST 

It is not the noise of the present he hears 
He sees not the triumphs of today; 

He is absorbed in the tale of the years, 

The years that have passed away. 

The present has little of interest to him 
The future none at all 
But from the Past’s murky rim 
He hears strange voices call. 

Fixedly gaznig with reverted eyes 

He sees far backward over the years 
To his vision buried cities in their ancient glory rise; 
He sees gleam of helm and sunsmit spears. 

Perhaps he is watching scenes in Babylon 
Or sitting with kings of old Chaldee 
Looking away back into ages gone 
What visions may he see. 

Gazing over the road the years have gone 
With warring kings astrave 
He sees empires marching on 
Marching to the grave. 

Unmindful of time in his flight 

To the present no thought he gives 
Away in the archaic night 
That is where he lives. 

As he contemplates relics of ancient glories 
New things are growing old 
Even around our most familiar stories 
Will the mists of Time enfold. 

Into the mists of ages gathering fast 
Some old landmark disappears 
But yet some message from the past 
Comes limping over the years. 

Through the gathering mists of time 
Some ray of light will shine 
Revealing a gem, a thought sublime, 

May that gift be thine. 


311 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE LADY OF THE TOWN 

When I spoke to her in a country lane 
She turned an indignant (glance on me 

That almost gave me pain; 

For she was very proud you see. 

She gave her head a toss and a swirl 
And haughtily looked down 

“I’d have you know, I am no hayseed girl, 

For I live in town. 

And remember I’m a lady, too, 

And I also wish that you should know 

It is a very improper thing to do 

For a Rube like you to speak to a lady so.” 

Said I, “Lady that I will glady do 

I'll take my memorandum book and mark it down. 

And surely I will remember you 
As the Lady of the town. 

Since then Fve make many a hike 
On country roads up and down 

But never since have met the like 
Of that Lady of the town. 


TO HEAR THE CUCKOO 

I remember glowing in frosty rime 
The holly berries red 
When at Christmas time 

The hall rang with merry tread. 

I remember the daffodils 
With golden bells a-swing 
As winds came roving by the gills 
In early days of spring. 

I remember them a flinging and swinging 

In boyish fancy I could almost hear them ring, 
As they were tinkling and twinkling 
In the sunshine of the spring. 


312 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


And often when dreams beguile 
My wayward thoughts take wing, 
Again I sit upon the stile 
And hear the cuckoo sing. 

Sometimes the wish is almost pain 
The pain almost a sting 
To sit upon the stile again 
To hear the cuckoo sing. 

Maybe I’ll go and sit upon the stile 
Though it be a foolish thing 
To go three thousand miles to sit a while 
To hear the cuckoo sing. 


WHEN WINTER COMES 

We are charmed with beauties beholden 
When leaves are red and golden 

Though we know they will be brown, 

Presaging nights of winter darkling 
And time of frosty crystals sparkling 
Icy gems of Boreas’ crown. 

We know that winter is near 
When we see the loose leaves sear 
Flutter across the lawn. 

■When mornings are colder 
Hearts must be bolder 
To go forth at dawn. 

There was a time when I found joy in the wind’s 
blowing 

Joy in the time of snowing 
And the tingling air afreeze. 

Joy to be up and doing 
Some purpose pursuing 

Facing the stinging breeze. 

Not now do I care to rove 
I’d rather sit by the stove 
In warm security 

And look through the window pane 
At the snow-covered hills across the plain 
In their cold purity. 


313 



MUSING S OF A SHEEPBERDER 


AGE 

Time flies on sober wings 

And we think much of little things 
When we are growing old 
We ponder over the book of age 
As passing years add page to page 
Until the tale is told. 

The long tale of years of toil 
In our blood has cooled the roil 
And we soon get tired 
Oft we sit and contemplate 
On the fickle ways of Fate 

Or dream of what we once admired. 

And we find it sweet 
To sit in the mellowing heat 
Of Autumn afternoons 
Even we can find joy at night 
In the soft and soothing light 
Of placid silver moons. 

Even when that shall fail 
And we come to the end of the tale 
We need not despond 
Other portals will open wide 
There will be plenty of room inside 
Plenty of room in the Great Beyond. 


DEAR FRIENDS 

Though we are far apart 

Severed by plain and mountain range 
Be it balm to either heart 

Not either heart will change. 

Though we be parted long, 

Our friendship will grow dearer 
Each heart will sing its fondest song 
Still hoping to be nearer. 


314 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Now I bid ‘good bye’ Dear Friend 
Happy may you be 
May all winds that thitherward trend 
Waft my thoughts to thee. 

Ajid every wind that hitherward trends 
For me thy thoughts shall win, 

God strengthen ties between dear friends 
And souls that are akin. 


I LOVE THE SEASONS 

Whether it be the time of opening buds 
When grass is lush and green 
And songsters of the woods 
Their sheeny plumage preen, 

Or when we long for cooling showers 
And seek the leafy shade 
When gardens are beautiful with flowers 
All splendid displayed, 

Or be it when Autumnal colors blaze 
Along the mountain side 
And the haze of Indian summer days 
Brood over horizons wide, 

Or when drift swirls past 
And wild snow devils ride 
And Boreas drives the rushing blast 
In his wowndy pride, 

Whatever the season chance to be 
That comes in their ceaseless roll 
It is welcome to me 

Because I love them all. 


315 



MUSING8 OF A SHEEPIfiERDER 


THE CAMPFIRE 

Above me I hear the northwind blow 
Among the leafless trees; 

I see a white robe hanging low 
About the mountain’s knees. 

W[hat is it the northwind says 
As it is passing by: 

Gone are the delights of Autumn days; 
Winter days are nigh. 

We will pile the faggots high 
And make our campfire blaze, 

I hear the northwind’s doleful sigh 
In depth of the forest maze. 

The stars glinting in the sky 

Are not the stars of an Autumn night 

Whose warm glow charms the eye; 

These are hard and cold and white. 

I hear a low and moaning wail 
Come creeping around the hill 

It is the advance of a winter gale 
I feel the growing chill. 

Pile on logs, give our campfire a warmer glow 
The stars are shining with a colder light 

I hear the snow T wind murmuring low 

I am coming, I am coming, I am coming 
tonight. 

The fire glows with ruddier light 
On branches stark and bare 

While snowflakes soft and white 
Come wavering through the air. 

We sit by the campfire’s flickering light 
Each with rifle near at knee 

Wolves are howling in the night 
And they are roaming free. 


316 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


At times we catch a glint of eyes that seem 
To look from coverts near 
But the fire’s ruddy gleam 
Keeps our hearts in cheer. 

Heap the logs higher yet 

As we keep watch and ward 
And let us still the merrier get 
Though all the night on guard. 

We shall beguile the night 
With story, jest and song 
And in our comforting campfire light 
The time will not seem long. 


WHO LOVES BEST 

His love may be strongest 
Who loves with most zest, 

But he who will love you longest 
Surely loves you best. 

More thrilling and romantic 
May be the impetuous kind 
With protestation and declaration frantic 
That so overwhelm the mind. 


The torrent rudely sweeping 
All resistance from its path 
Over all obstacles madly leaping 

But in desolation comes the aftermath. 

And pools of muddy water 
Is all that is left behind, 

Search as you will, my daughter, 

Not one clear drop you’ll find. 

The love may seem strongest 
That shows most zest 
But he who loves longest 
Surely loves the best. 


317 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE WARLORD AND SATAN 

Before Satan stood a warlord 
The proudest of all 
To see if Satan would accord 
To help him attain his goal. 

“Mighty am I as a warlord 

It is right that before me all should fall 
For I have the power of sword 
The greatest power of all. 

All those little decaying nations 
That are standing in my way 
They annoy me with vexations; 

They must not be allowed to stay. 

Before me they shall tremble 
Before me they shall crawl 
When my armies assemble 

I shall hold the world in thrall.” 

Said Satan: “I care not, my dear Warlord, 
Whether the world is bond or free; 
Though you have the power of sword 
To your plans others may not agree. 

It will not aid in your endeavor 
To be known as friend of mine 
But it would be rather clever 

To claim as partner, One, High and Divine. 

Now go about your own affairs 
And do not bother me 
The matter is yours and theirs 
However it chance to be. 

What to me are the petty triumphs 
Of poor, puny little men, 

Of Kaiser or Czar; Sumphs! 

Small is the limit of their ken. 

What to me is all Earth’s domination 
Such trivial, petty power 
Though brought to consummation 
It would crumble in an hour. 


318 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


What obstacles might be surmounted 
By the forces at my call 
But there are worlds on worlds uncounted 
Where I’ve no power at all. 

Oh! If my forces could be hurled 
Into a vast domain 
But this puny, little earthworld 
Is the limit of my chain. 

The Power that chained me 
Chains only for a while 
Has temporarily restrained me 
In my work of guile. 

That is why in the world of men I am active 
Doing my little part 
I make my lures so attractive, 

Temptation is quite an art. 

W f hen my day of freedom dawns 

When I am loosened from this chain 
With my army of damned ones 
I’ll strive for power again. 

Oft in dreams, I lead a multitudinous host 
TJp to the highest heights of heaven 
A host of all the damned and lost 
Whose sins are unforgiven. 


Come on, ye damned and lost 
Worship the God of Sin 
On, on to the strife, ye mighty host, 
We’ll win. we’ll win, we’ll win. 


I see the heavenly hosts in panic driven 
I see the Highest, before me cower 
I seize the goal for which I’ve striven 
The Greatest; the Supremest Power. 

On the highest, Holiest height I set my throne 
I, the mightiest in might 
All power to me is drawn, 

I, Lucifer, the Light. 


319 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPH\ERDER 


Then all the Heavens quake 

With the terrific crash of my tumultuous fall 
Around, far and near echoes wake 
And in thunderous voices call. 

My throne is sent hurling down, fiery torrents 
around me hiss, 

My ruin still goes thundering on 
Till in the deepest, darkest abyss 
Are all my labors gone. 

Ah me! what I have lost 
My light forbade to shine 
Ah, woe! the bitter cost 
Not even Hell is mine. 

All my glory and all my might 
All my power supreme 
Has vanished like a spark at night 
A dream, a dream, a dream. 

All your triumphs; all your hopes 
Of every cherished scheme 
Will go hurling down haltless slopes 

Like mine; a dream, a dream, a dream.” 


THE INDIAN GHOST 

Up where the grey mist droops 
And the mountain’s bosom swells 
And trees stand in sombre groups 
In secluded mountain dells. 

Up where the damp cloud drifts 
To nurse the mountain rills 
And shrubs that grow in jagged rifts 
Of the silent stony hills, 

Bushes have long been bent 

And lichened rocks long have lain 
Over the path where wai’rior and hunter went 
To the lookout over the plain. 


320 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


There the dusky warrior stood 

And the hunter with keen bright eye 
One watching for chance of battle and blood, 
One to see the grazing herd go by. 

After the sun goes down 

Over the hills that are far away 
And the massive boulders brown 
Catch the last beams of day. 

Perhaps an Indian spirit will creep 
Out of the shadows grey 
And through the night will vigil keep 
Where only sheepherders stray. 

Yes, there may some Indian soul come out 
When daytime sounds are still 
And through the night may wander about 
Over that lonely hill. 

One night as I watched the sheep 
As they were in restless mood 
I did not lie down and did not sleep 
But there on the mountain stood. 

Out on the mountain’s rim 
There stood an Indian chief 
A form shadowy and dim 

Shown against the sky in faint relief; 

His flaunting plumes my attention drew 
As they fluttered and toss’d; 

That shadowy form with stars shining through 
I think was an Indian’s ghost. 

He stood and looked in far-off gaze 
The light in his sombre eyes; 

That he was a chief of long gone days 
I knew by his Indian guise. 

Next morning I looked for sign or token 
No sign w r as to be seen 
Not a leaf of lichen was bruised or broken 
Where the Indian chief had been. 


321 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


CHANGING 

Observe the mountains huge and grand 
And the immensity of plain 
The leagues and leagues of wave-washed strand 
Will they ever thus remain? 

No, I think they will not last 
For things are changing still 
They have been changing through all the past 
And for all time they will. 

Thov will keep changing like a dream 
Yes, I think they will; 

Every little trickling stream 
Is wearing down the hill. 

There is not a wind that blows 
But moves some grain of sand 
Yes, the winds, the rains and snows 
Are changing all the land. 

Observe the winds that blow 
The drifting clouds of dust 
Ah! things may be changing slow 
But change they surely must. 

Time may take away the sea 

And bring mountains level to the plain 
But through all changes that may be 
Yet shall God remain. 

Some one asked of me: 

When man has passed from the sod 
And Time has stilled the sea 
Will there be need of God? 

Yes, for nothing yet has ceased to be 
And things will change again 
Time will repeople land and sea 
And God will remain. 


322 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


NIGHT, GOOD NIGHT 

Out among the sage 

With a bunch of shivering sheep 
When a night seems an age 
A wakeful watch to keep, 

How often the watcher with anxious eye 
To the East will turn 
To catch the first glint in the sky 
The harbinger of morn. 

How longingly he waits 

For the much desired sight 
When darkness abates 

And he can bid the Night: Goodnight. 

When eastward a tinge of light 
Appears on distant edge of plain 
It is time to bid the Night: Goodnight, 

For Day is coming again. 

To the watcher a welcome sight 
Come, hasten, welcome day 
And departing Night, Goodnight, 

Each hasten on your way. 

As from plain and height 
Darkness draws away, 

Again to bid the Night, Goodnight, 

And turn to greet the day. 

The rosy glow on that hill of snow 
And miles of marbled plain 
To see it grow and to know 
That, day has come again. 

Can you feel as he has felt 
WTio stood among the sage 
Through a night and saw darkness melt 
As though it were the darkness of an age. 


323 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHFRDER 


WIND AND SUNSHINE 

The winds in their fleetness 
Bring health to our vale 
They bring the sweetness 

Gathered from hill and dale; 

The tonic of the winds’ wild rush 

Bearing tang of cedar, fragrance of pine 
And aroma of sagebrush 

Blent in essence like good wine. 

The wind briskly blowing 
Gives a mail power and vim 
And sets his blood aflowing 
In a way that’s good for him. 

The floods of golden sunshine 
Poured upon the land 
A gift of the power Divine 
The work of a master hand. 

A blessed land of breezy ways 
What pleasure it is to live 
In a land of sunny days 

A land that has so much to give. 

And the sunset in flaming glory 
Lighting the western sky 
Telling to us the story 

That night is drawing nigh. 

The day is slowly dying 

And we see in the decreasing light 
The birds homeward flying 
To their refuge for the night. 

Then the stars come out in numbers 
To watch the city lights 
Guarding the city in its slumbers 
Through the mysteries of nights. 

Land of breeze and sunshine; 

Land of starry skies 
Long may the beauty that is thine 
Bring pleasure to my eyes. 


324 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


WE WILL PLAY AT BEING YOUNG 

Folks say that we are growing old, 

That we are aging, you and I, 

And that our blood is growing cold, 

That we are getting dim of eye. 

But when we see the young at play 
When they laugh and leap and run 

We are delighted as much as they 
And we enjoy the fun. 

We’ll imagine we are just as young as they 
And enjoy ourselves, you bet; 

That we belong to another day 
We will for the time forget. 

Up there among the trees 

Where the hill overlooks the plain 

We’ll sit in the summer breeze 
And sing our songs again. 

We’ll sing of the good old days 

When our hearts were fresh and young 

And we’ll sing the good old lays 
That we in boyhood sung. 

For the time we’ll forget our age 
And forget that we are tired 

We’ll turn back each fond remembered page 
Of books we once admired. 

The heart that still can sing 
Can find some joy in living 

Some joy to soothe the sting 
That age insists on giving. 


325 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE FIREBREATHING DRAGON 

There was a firebreathing dragon 
Who hadn’t a rag on 

And drank from a flagon 
Of old Rhenish wane. 

This firebreathing dragon 
Had got quite a jag on 

And his tail quite a wag on 
Then he wanted to dine. 

So he a journey began 
To get a suitable man 
To put in his pan 

To frizzle and fry him in chops. 

He found a little nigger 
But he wanted one bigger 
And of fuller figure 

But nothing suited in all the butcher shops. 

One butcher had quite a shock 
And nearly fell over his block 

Declared he hadn’t such a thing in stock 
And so he couldn’t deliver. 

But the dragon was very insistent 
And rudely persistent 

The butcher wished himself far distant 
Going fast in a flivver. 

Said the dragon, “I’ll take off your pants 
And make you fill my wants 
Answer me not with can’ts 
You are my choice of foods 

If you don’t hand out what I wish 
For a savory dish 

I’ll cook you like a fish 

Unless you deliver the goods. 

The Butcher had a wife and unwilling to leave her 
For it surely would grieve her 
So he picked up his cleaver 

And hit the dragon on the snout 

For being so rude and so rash 
He made him into hash 
And sold him for cash 

That is how r he handed him out. 


326 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


If you ever meet a firebreatliing dragon 
That hasn’t got a rag on 
But an awful big jag on 

And is wanting to eat up a man 
When he makes known his want 
Be lie ever so gaunt 
Don’t say you can’t 

Just hand him the can. 


THE OAK TREE 

Where a wanton west wind stirs 
The green canopy of forest arches 

I see the dark hue of Scotch firs 
And soft green of the larches. 

I wandered the woods fancy free 

But I think I loved the oak tree best; 

1 often climbed an oak tree 
To reach a Corby’s nest. 

In my boyish searches 

Throughout the woodland reaches 

I would note the shining leaves of birches 
And glossy leaves of beeches; 

Where golden sunshine splashes 

Down through some woodland monarch’s crown 

Illumining the grey boles of the ashes 
And elm trunks of sober brown. 

Still in my heart will be 

A fondness for all the rest, 

Yet it is the oak tree 
That I love the best. 


327 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE ANGEL OF THE BIRDS 

The day was very cold 

And snow was deep upon the ground. 

And it scarcely need be told 

Birds fluttered comfortless around. 

Hunger added to their sorrows 

Because the snow was so very deep 
And the little city sparrows 

Plaintively cried, cheep, cheep, cheep. 

Searching in the storm 

For a little morsel of food 
Something to help warm 

Their quickly chilling blood, 

Their poor pitiful takings 
Barely for a moment stops 
The painful hunger achings 
Within their little crops. 

But there dwells in the city 

One whose kindness can scarce be told in words 
The Lady with a heart of pity, 

The angel of the birds. 

Cries of distress; she will heed them, 

On errand of mercy she will go 
And purposely to feed them 
She waded through the snow. 

From far places of the city 
From distant city wards 
To share the bounty of the Lady of pity 
Came the city birds. 

They came thronging all the bushes 
And crowding all the trees 
Fluttering about in sudden darts and rushes 
At first descending in two’s and three’s. 

Soon glad sounds they are uttering 
And alighting by the score 
With cheerful chirping and fluttering 
Descend by the hundred or maybe more. 


328 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


In the cheerful sounds they utter 
The plaintive notes have ceased 
As with joyful flutter 

They descend upon the feast. 

Thus the birds of the city 

Give thanks, though not in words 
To the Lady with the heart of pity, 
Angel of the Birds. 


THE LIGHT IN THE DISTANCE 

That light far off in the distance 
Twinkling through the gloom 
Compels my gaze with strange insistence 
As I see it from my room. 

Through amongst waving branches 
And across miles of rolling plain, 

Away across the ranches 

I see it from my window pane. 

Far off in the distance 
I see that winking light 
Even when moonlight glistens 
On frozen landscape white. 

Sometimes I see it gleaming 
Like a staring steadfast eye 
From a lone world and seeming 
A star fallen from the sky. 

Is it an angel fallen from heaven 
Who offended the Divine 
An angel unforgiven 

Doomed with eartlibom lights to shine? 

Is it some soul unshriven 
With a sin to atone; 

Or maybe a fragment riven 

From some world far and lone? 

Is it concealing or revealing? 

"Who can answer how or why. 

It is at once compelling and appealing, 

That wakeful, watchful eye. 


329 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


WET AND DRY 

Some fellows had found the wet 
In a cellar dark and cool 
And you can safely bet 
They were happy as fishes in a pool. 

Into a wood they took their jugs 
And you can well believe 
They were as happy as June bugs 
On a dewy summer eve. 

High in the realm of pleasure soared 
The soul of each hilarious boy 
While from each jug nectar poured 
Sweet as summer joy. 

A dry officer caught the scent 
And he took up the trail 
With such zeal as zealots went 
In search of the Holy Grail. 

He searched through shady nooks 

Where fragrant petals fell in showers 
And very eagerly he looks 

Into whispering woodland bowers. 

When he found the wets 
He was a happy man 
And still happier he gets 
When sampling began. 

He carefully tested each jug 
With thoroughness unsparing 
The long sustained glug-glug-glug 
Kept the fellows staring. 

To the boys he said, “You had the stuff 
But it is just as I feared 
Though the evidence was plain enough 
The proof has disappeared. 

So we will let the matter drop 
But the next time I’ll cinch it, 

This kind of thing has got to stop 
When I get the chance to pinch it.” 

They exclaimed “Let it drop, says you, 
Why man you let it gush. 

Let it drop. Oh! phoo-oo-oo, 

You tried to give it a push.” 

330 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


WHEN ONLY DREAMS COME TRUE 

There will never be a thought of gloom 
And flowers will always bloom 
When only dreams come true! 

When only dreams come true! 

All trees will fruit or blossoms bear 

And give sweetness to the ambient air 
When only dreams come true! 

When only dreams come true! 

We won’t be annoyed by silly acts 

We won’t be worried by stubborn facts; 
When only dreams come true! 

When only dreams come true! 

Instead of working, we will play 
Whenever we feel that way 
When only dreams come true! 

When only dreams come true! 

Only what will give us most delight 
Shall ever be in sight; 

When only dreams come true! 

When only dreams come true! 

All our dreams we shall choose 

What we don’t want we will refuse, 
When only dreams come true! 

When only dreams come true! 

There will be nothing we shall rue 

And plenty of really good homebrew, 
When only dreams come true! 

When only dreams come true! 

We’ll never have to work or fight, 
Everything will be just right, 

When only dreams come true! 

When only dreams come true! 

No unpleasant sight will trouble our eyes 
And only the idle will be the wise, 
When only dreams come true! 

When only dreams come true! 

The wise will do nothing at all 
The fools will do it all, 

When only dreams come true! 

When only dreams come true! 

331 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPEERDER 


WHAT THE HERDER SEEKS 

Wandering among the grasses 
Loitering along the creeks 
Winding through mountain passes 
Climbing mountain peaks; 

Through grassy plots and bushy coves 
The restless herder strays 
Or explores awhile in piney groves 
While liis woolies graze 

Where aspen close embowering 
Around cool hidden springs 
Where mints and columbine flowering 

And sound of running water the herder brings 

After him the sheep come browsing 
The bells all ting-a-ling, 

From some deep reverie rousing 
His thoughts outward fling. 

And on he goes wandering 
In the sweet mountain air 
By a limpid stream meandering; 

What seeks the herder there? 

Oh nothing but just to be moving 
Just to be moving on 
Each beautiful scene aloving 
He just keeps loving on. 

He will wander days and weeks 
Among tumbled mountain towers 
But nothing the herder seeks 
Except the passing hours. 

Sometimes musing over his hopes 

Or he may give a thought to tallies 
When hurrying down mountain slopes 
T6 winter in the valleys. 

And when on the winter range 

The herder is still wandering to and fro 
As if it were all wonderful and strange 
And a place he did not know. 

While the cold wind stings his cheeks 
And drives flurries of snow 
Yet the only thing the herder seeks 
Is the hours that go. 

332 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


THE OLD ALMANAC 

I saw it fastened to the wall 
Of a weather-beaten shack; 

What memories may it recall 
That old Almanac. 

For ten years it has remained 
Held by a single tack, 

Dusty, smeared and stained 
Is that old Almanac. 

The hands that fixed it there 
Will they ever come back 

And with careless motion tear 
Down that old Almanac! 

Perhaps they are still busy somewhere 
Toiling along Life’s track 

And every day is counted there 
On another Almanac. 

Time is passing on his way 
With steps that never slack 

As his blade lops another day 
From the Almanac. 

The pleasures we have tasted 
Can they ever come back 

Or the days we have wasted 

Recorded on some old Almanac! 

We will leave it there, yes leave it there. 
A relic of useless wrack, 

As long as Time shall spare 
That old Almanac. 


333 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


IN THE DESERT 

Tramping through desert sands 
Plodding wearily on 

On through sunblistered lands 
Where a trail is scarely known. 

The shimmering heat is blurring 
The Desert far and wide; 

Mirages sometimes occurring 

Seem so real their lure cannot be denied. 

My course is crooked and twining; 

There are phantoms racing by. 

A merciless sun is shining 

Between torrid earth and glowing sky. 

Why should I be wandering 
Where often strong men die? 

Why the strength of youth squandering? 

I cannot answer why. 

Unless it be the lust of going 
Where vagrant fancy leads, 

The desire of seeing and knowing 
And the doing of deeds. 

I see the dust devils dancing 
All along my way 

And lancelike sunbeams glancing 
From rocks as hot as they. 

There is the eye of madness staring 
And the red demon Thirst; 

The Desert hot and glaring 
In blinding light immerst. 

High up is a dark speck appearing 
Circling through the heated air 

Soon there are others and ever nearing 
They seem to come from everywhere. 

I see them gather and cluster 
Those dark specks in the sky, 

I see the greedy buzzards muster 
Waiting for me to die. 


334 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


They are ever coming closer 

Their foulness pollutes the air; 

Who will he the loser 

In the race with buzzard and Thirst; diabolic pair. 

The old buzzard king 

Is the most daring of the flock; 

He sails by with flapping wing 
And alights upon a rock. 

I think I hear him speaking 
As he comes closer by; 

I see his foul breath reeking; 

I see his gloating eye. 

I know that he is talking; 

Asking “W r hy do you not die? 

’Tis no use to keep on walking, 

Soon all spent you’ll lie. 

You cannot live much longer 

(Ever comes that croaking cry), 

Without water you can’t get stronger 
And the desert is so dry. 

And here we are all waiting, 

Waiting for you to die; 

Our hunger we would be sating 
Ere stars come in the sky. 

Our feast you are delaying 

We are hungry and ask you why 
This stubbornness you are displaying 
When you can only die?” 

‘Wile bird, long may you hunger, 

I hope long you will hunger so 
To make you suffer longer 

I would live through centuries of woe. 

But see that black cloud yonder 
Know what it holds in store, 

Soon there will be peals of thunder, 

Soon rain will pour. 


335 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


Yes, watch that cloud growing 
Spreading over the sky 
A broad shadow over the desert throwing; 

That is why I do not die. 

Through that cloud comes jagged lightning ripping 
And the rumble of thunder rolling; 

These rocks with water will be dripping 
And heavy rain drops falling. 

The raindrop that splashed beside you 
In it your hopes are drowned; 

The feast is denied you 

That you thought you had found. 

See this ground all soaking 

And those rocks dripping wet 
Your purpose of feasting balking; 

You must hunger yet.” 

The king buzzard flapped his heavy pinions 
And bore himself away 
Followed by his hungry minions 
To fast another day. 


SHE DIDN’T RAISE HER SON TO BE A SOLDIER 

She did not raise her son to be a soldier 
For soldiers went forth to kill and maim 
And her tender conscience told her 
War is a sinful game. 

And her daughter, the light of her eye 

She raised to be an invader’s sport and game. 
While her brother stands tamely by 
And sees his sister’s shame. 

Though homes be wrecked and burning 
And hearts be filled with dread 
Though thousands be mourning 
He wasn’t a soldier bred. 


336 



BY me HARD FORSTER 


Not for him scenes of battle 
With toil and danger rife 

Not for him the weapon’s rattle 
In times of bloody strife. 

He must have a smoother path 
A way of peace and ease. 

Not for him to brave an enemy’s wrath 
In troubled times like these. 

Nothing could bring him to it 
He wasn’t a soldier trained 

He would let others do it 
So long as others remained. 

He had been taught that if untrained 
He would never have to fight 

In him it was ingrained 

That to yield was always right. 

This teaching may be a blunder 
And maybe cause some grief 

As the hopes of easy plunder 

Oft bring the robber and the thief. 

HILLS OF WYOMING 

The cold hurrying rills 

Come tumbling white and foaming 
Adown the rocky hills, 

The hills of Wyoming. 

Where mountains uplift 

The hunter goes aroaming 
After game nimble and swift 
Among hills of Wyoming. 

I love to see the soft mists drift 
Over the butte’s rocky coaming, 

Steep cliff and ragged rift 
And canyons of Wyoming. 

How sublime! How grand the sight! 

From daybreak to gloaming 
I find a sweet delight 

Among hills of Wyoming. 

But no matter whether it be hill or flat, 
When turns my wandering spirit homing 
Can you wonder that 
I love all Wyoming! 


337 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE BUM 

His summer wages had gone glimmering down 
the line 

With the things that was 
Through mazy times of moonshine 
And hours of dizzy jazz. 

For man was made to drink a lot 
Man was made to thirst 
The deeper that he drains the pot 
He’s sure to get the worst. 

Every time I saw him come 
He always tried to mooch, 

He looked like a boozy bum 

Smelling strong of hooch. 

For man was made to drink a lot 
Man was made to thirst 
The deeper that he drains the pot 
He’s sure to get the worst. 

Every prospect that he sees 
He tries to make a touch 
Just a quarter if you please 
Of course it isn’t much 
For man was made to drink a lot 
Man was made to thirst 
The deeper that he drains the pot 
He’s sure to get the worst. 

Oh! barrels of boozy bootleg 

And oceans of homemade hooch 
That stuff will lead a man to beg 
And leave him an empty pooch. 

For man was made to drink a lot 
Man was made to thirst 
The deeper that he drains the pot 
He’s sure to get the worst. 

Could he be reformed some? 

Very likely he would not; 

Never mind that boozy bum 
Just let him go to pot. 

For man was made to drink a lot 
Man was made to thirst 
Deeper he drains the pot 
He’s sure to get the worst. 


338 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


BY THE WOODSIDE 

Here in mottled shade 
Of alder and of ash 

Through drowsy hours I’ve laid 
To hear the water plash. 

Drops trickling and drippling 
Over the side, 

Water plashing and rippling 
Where pebbles chide. 

Here I come oftly 

To see the water glide, 

O! stream sing softly 
By the woodside. 

The foam flecks come trooping 
And sometimes they hide 

Where fern fronds are drooping 
Over the side. 

O stream, I love to be near thee 
Then plash and babble along 

And I will bring her to hear thee 
Sing thy sweet song. 

Under umbrage so coftly 
Unseen we’ll abide, 

O stream, sing softly 
By the woodside. 

Thy song will endear thee 
To our hearts forever; 

So onward career thee 
Bound for the river. 

Past bowlders that fret thee 
In thy endeavor; 

Shall we forget thee; 

Never, no never. 

Above thee aloftly 

Boughs spreading wide, 

O stream sing softly 
By the woodside. 


339 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


THE VALENTINE 

There was a little maid 
Her name was Emmeline 
And she sent to a bashful lad 
A little valentine. 

But Harry was awkward and shy 
And maybe a little afraid 
Perhaps that is the reason why 
That no reply he made. 

Except for bashfulness, not in any way 
Did poor Harry shine 
And not a word could he say 
Though he loved Emmeline. 

Then passed days and weeks, 

Still he treasured that valentine 
Yet of it he never speaks 
To sweetest Emmeline. 

Time measured off years as he went by 
And Harry was to manhood grown 
He still was very shy 

Though his years numbered twenty-one. 

But other failings he had got 
That were not very nice 
Some said he drank a lot; 

That it amounted to a vice. 

Soon it seemed his only occupation 
Seldom sober was he seen 
He sank lower and lower in station: 

What might he not have been! 

Still lower and lower yet he sinks 
Habitually befouled with drink 
Of reforming he never thinks 

Though he was close to ruin’s brink. 

Yet one thought that wretch endears 
He has not forgot sweet Emmieline 
Through all those sordid years 
He has kept that valentine. 


340 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Then there came the hour 

The gasping nation called for aid 

As the dread war clouds lower 

And posters were everywhere displayed. 

Calling anxiously for volunteers 
The country was direst need 

It was a time of stress and fears 
A fateful time indeed. 

A beery wretch with bleary eye 
He saw those posters, too 

As he chanced to be standing by 

And read, “Your country needs you.” 

The crowd guffawed and laughed 
“From your duty do not shrink.” 

Ribald jesters jibed and chaffed, 

“They need you to put down the drink” 

Some said, “Give Harry a gun 
And send him to the front 
Where he can harry the Hun 
They’ll run before Harry the Scrunt.” 

He was astounded at the thought 
That the country needed him. 

A secluded comer he sought 

In his mind a thought, hazy as yet and dim 

Strangely did that thought persist 
And for a reason he could not define 

He went straightway to enlist 
And be a soldier of the Line. 

The officer wondered if such a derelict of human 
race 

Who seemed so unfit 

Ever a patriot’s place could grace 
And do a soldier’s bit. 

Not for him the way of willing mien to bar 
Not for him to make denial 

If this thing, could help to win the war. 

He should have fair trial. 


341 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


In short time few would have recognized The Scrunt, 
He grew so soldierly and smart 

And soon went to the front: 

To do a soldier’s part. 

And he did it with vigor and vim 
In many a battle sharing 

And officers commended him 
For his skill and daring. 

One day he was carried from a spot 
Where scraps of shell were flying; 

Then on a hospital cot 
We find Harry lying. 

When a careful nurse had drest 

The wounds of this “Soldier of the Line” 

She found on his blood stained breast 
A faded valentine. 

What if in her eyes were tears 
That like dewdrops shine; 

She knows it after all those years 
For she is Emmeline. 

In time Harry’s wounds got well 
But his soldier work was done 

For he had been crippled by the shell 
But another victory he had won. 

For to her the ■words he had said 
He might have said so long ago 

By her answer, so happy he was made: 

What it was; you know. 

He was still pale and wan 

When, with her he returned to his native, shore 

A wreck of war, but more a man 
Than he had been before. 


342 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


HE SANG A SONG OF THE SEA 

With wind and sun he was well betanned 
As brown as man can be; 

He came across the prairie land 
With the rolling gait of the sea. 

His voice was cheery and loud 
And rollicking songs sang he 

While the land he plowed 
He sang a song of the sea. 

A farmer! No! Not if he knows 
A farmer! not a bit, not he; 

He packs and away he goes 
Singing a song of the sea. 

Then among woods he stops 
A timber jack to be 

And ever as limbs he lops 
He sings a song of the sea. 

Then he would not be a timber jack 
No! not a bit, not he! 

And as he shoulders his pack 
He sings a song of the sea. 

Then among mountain peaks 
Where mining men may be 

While for a job he seeks 
He sings a song of the sea. 

For a while we saw him stop 
As cheery as man can be 

And standing on a mountain top 
He sang a song of the sea. 


343 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPIIjERDER 


THE SAILOR’S STORY 

I’ve a wife or two in Boston town 
And three or four in Dover; 

You can set it down 

I have wives and loves all over. 

I have a few at the Golden Gate 
At Portsmouth two or three, 

And a dandy girl up the state 
Is waiting now for me: 

I have some in Halifax 

And right tight craft they be, 

I never pay any bachelor tax 
No! not a bit, not me! 

Oh, yes, I am a married man, 

As all sailor men should be, 

But it is a very good plan 
To spend a while at sea. 

I have wives in every port 
Enough to welcome me 

And I had lots of sport 

Every time I came from sea. 

But one time I got a jounce 
I never have got over, 

Me and my wives all met at once 
And we all met in Dover. 

They surely made things chime 
They keelhauled me all over, 

You set it down, I had a time; 

I’ll never go back to Dover. 


344 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


There’s no refuge now for me at sea, 
No place I can discover 
But a lot of women will he 

Claiming me as husband or lover. 

Whenever I come into port 
I meet with five or six 
Bent on hauling me into court 
In this matrimonial mix. 

They’ve hunted me from town to town 
They’ve hunted me all over 
They’ve hunted me up and down 
Till I’m a restless rover. 

I’ll never go back to a seaport town 
I’ll never go back to Dover 
If I do, I’ll be done up brown, 

I’d rather be a rover. 


FEAB NOT AGE 

Fear not that the heart will be dour 
Or that the milk of life grow sour 
When we are old. 

If we cherish sunshine in the heart 
And cheerfully do our part 

There will be no rancidness or mold. 

Our years can never be so long 

The heart cannot give forth a song 
Nor can it be quite lorn and lone, 

All sweetness can never depart 
From the human heart 

Unless it beat for self alone. 

Age can meet the future with fearless eye 
Watch the years come—and go by 
And make them all its own. 

A part of the great Plan 

Of the partnership, God and Man 
And make the years its crown. 


345 



MUSINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


SHE COMES TO ME AGAIN 

There is a grave, I know where 
Beside a carven stone 

A few lines are graven there 
And a wooly lamb thereon. 

They tell me that she died, 

That she is buried there 

In that grave on the hillside 

And her soul is among angels fair. 

They say those who have passed beyond 
Will never more return 

Though hearts be e’er so fond 
Or e’er so deeply mourn. 

And they assert without a doubt 
That it must be so: 

They know not what they talk about 
They surely do not know. 

For often she comes to me 

When earth-born cares oppress 

Her well beloved form I see 
I feel her soft caress. 

She bears the balm of healing 
My tortured heart to ease 

Her presence toi me revealing 

Love and Life in Death do not cease. 

When I feel wild passions urge 
In ways delusive and vain; 

Or when over me surge 

Waves of longing and of pain. 

Then I feel her gentle touch 
As she hovers by my side 

And when feeling such 
My soul is glorified. 


346 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


When my thoughts diverge 
From toils and trials of men 
From shadows I see her form emerge 
And she comes to me then. 

When below the horizon, the glowing sun 
Has gone down in gorgeous array 
Then comes my beloved one 

Through shades of twilight grey. 

When nights are long and drear 
With sleeplessness and pain 
Oft I know that she is near 
She has come to me again. 

And time shall be we will not part 
Nor ever be severed again 
But soul with soul and heart with heart 
For eternity to remain. 


ETHALYNNE 

Tall and straight the cavalier stood 
Before proud Ethalynne; 

Long lie had sued and wooed 
Yet he did not win. 

Not for her a poor man’s lot to share 
And live on modest means 

She must wear fabrics rare 
And move among the queens. 

Now he came to bid a la.st good-bye 

And declare the thoughts in his mincb; 

To her he made not moan or sigh 
For that was not his kind. 

“Fair art thou my bonny lass 
Thou art fair as lily-blow, 

Yet thy glance is hard as glass 
Thy bosom cold as snow. 

O Fair art thou indeed, alas! 

Thy heart with love will never glow, 

There is not any of thy class 

The raptures of love shall know. 


347 



MUSINQS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


What love can warm that bosom of thine 
Or melt the ice within, 

What love can make thine eyes to shine, 
Coldliearted Ejthalynne. 

Cold and proud is the.winter god 
So cold and pr(Tud art thou 
But heavy thy feet will plod 
Over the road tliou’lt go. 

Tliou shalt tread the way alone 
Thy life a world of ice and snow 
From which love has fled and hope has gone. 
Little of affection thou wilt know. 

Thou wilt find that power and wealth 
Capnot give the heart a home 
They smother it with gathering filth 
Where happiness cannot come. 

Now, Fare thee well, my bonny lass, 

From thy sight I go 
And heavy, heavy time will pass 
With my load of woe. 

A last adieu, my lily blow, 

Our parting is for aye; 

The sun has set, yon western glow 
Closes our parting day.” 

He turned and with hasty stride 
He went from her away 
His heart asurge with'wounded pride 
Not longer could he stay. 

He sought adventure and strife 
He carried spear and shield 
And recklessly he risked his life 
On many a battlefield. 

Still his heart was full of pride 
He never sued again 
And soon he rocfe his last ride 
Out to the battle plain. 


348 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


Not love was her desire 
But only vain display. 

To be clad in fine attire 

To mingle with the glad and gay. 


THE WONDERS OF NATURE 

The moonlight on the mountain 
The sunlight on the sea 

The splashing of fountain 
And humming of the bee: 

The music of windwaves 
Across forest groves, 

The wonder work of vaulted caves 
And myriad treasure troves; 

The ceaseless voice of waterfalls 
The calm of sheltered coves 

The massiveness of mountain walls 
And the frail nests of the doves; 

The strangeness of rock shapes 

And Nature’s wonderful ways with ice; 

The beauties of landscapes 
And many things so nice: 

The prairie's open space 
The straggling patch of bush; 

Our Earth is a wonderful place 

Colored by the Master Artist’s brush. 

The purity of snow scenes 
Far as vision goes 

What beauty the eye gleans 
For the soul that knows. 

These sights and sounds, I love them, 

They all seem good to me; 

And the Great God above them 
Has given the best to me. 


349 



MU SINGS OF A SHEEPHERDER 


TO THE READER OF THESE POEMS 

I am no high browed gink 
With commission to preach, 

Nor care I to make you think— 

No lesson haw I to teach. 

My grammar may oft be wrong, 

Then please just pass it by, 

The rules of grammar aren’t strong, 

’Tis well for you and I. 

If my poems no good have won you, 

For that you needn’t fret, 

Very little harm they’ve done you, 

Aiid you may soon forget. 

If my pen has not the power 
To move to good or ill, 

It may help to pass a tedious hour, 

Yes, perhaps it will. 

If in high and lofty flights 

My thoughts have not soared, 

If with bright glowing lights 
My verses are not stored. 

I pray you do not feel aggrieved 
That it happens so, 

If very little I’Ve achieved 
’Tis so little that I know. . 


350 



BY RICHARD FORSTER 


I but sing of common things, 

I’m not a scholar’d man, 

Just as the wind-blown bough it swings, 
Without a studied plan. 

The lambkins play, the birds they sing, 
Yet they know not why, 

Nature must have its fling, 

In beast and bird and I. 

So far my path has lain 
By unfrequented ways, 

And I have sung in simple strain 
My own simple lays. 

Many a poet has lived unknown 
And sung to the desert air, 

And I have sung my songs alone, 

Nor cared how or where. 

If in them you find aught to please 
You can sing them, too, 

And read them at your ease, 

My best wishes be with you. 


351 



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